The White Tenebrae
by Nephilim Rising
Summary: Historical AU. Siberian Ice March, Russia, 1919. The White Army is retreating, suffering great losses. Torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life. Sephiroth х Genesis.
1. Chapter I: Snow and blood

_Summary_: Historical AU. Siberian Ice march. White Army is retreating, suffering great losses from Reds, frost and typhus. In the middle of nowhere, torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis.

_A/N_: Short story (not more than 3 or 4 chapters), written in response to my favorite fic - sphinxofthenile's _'For no good reason'_. I thought that the idea of putting Sephiroth and Genesis into real historical environment was an awesome one and a great chance to share something interesting.

_**Warning**_: war topics, adult themes, light yaoi, violence, character's death. I'll try to keep as close to canon in portraying my characters as I can; like Seph will be the same cold, educated, proud general I saw him in CC, but this is a historical fiction, so… ^_^

_**Short list of names and personalities:**_

_Tenebrae (lat. darkness, eclipse)_ – I saw some historians call the period between WW1 and WW2 like that.

_Saharov K_. – lieutenant general, Commander in Chief of Eastern front from 4th November to 9th December 1919.

_Admiral Kolchak_ - Supreme Ruler of Russia 1918-1920. Officially detained on 27th December 1919, betrayed and imprisoned by socialist revolutionaries on 5th of January 1920, executed by shooting in Irkutsk on the 7th February, 1920.

_Kappel V._ - lieutenant general, Commander in Chief of Eastern front since 9th December 1919.

_Vashe blagorodie or Vashe Prevoshoditelstvo_ – (your Honor or your Excellency) this is the way peasants and lower ranking military stuff addressed high ranking officers like major and lieutenant generals. To make it more comfortable to read, I never used the initial Russian version.

* * *

**THE WHITE TENEBRAE**

"_For most people war is the finale of solitude. For me it is the final solitude." (A. Kamu.)_

_**Chapter I.**_

_**Snow and blood.**_

_28th December, 1919; echelon of Commander in Chief's headquarters, nearing Krasnoyarsk._

The armored train was moving slowly, almost crawling, snow covered virgin white landscape sliding away into fading crimson mist of approaching sunset. Frames of trees, woven into black impenetrable wall, stood as silent guardians of flawless stillness, broken only by monotonous sound of steel hitting steel.

Taiga.

Major General Sephiroth froze, absently looking through his blurred reflection in the window of his personal compartment. His pale face, as if carved with sculptor's chisel, was a marble mask, the only signs of life being vivid emerald eyes and short silver tresses, fluttering in faint lade. Grayish-green overcoat clung to broad shoulders, outlining his haughty bearing. This was a pale shade of full white uniform he wore when he appeared before the Emperor Nikolay II after he's been decorated with an Order of Alexander Nevskiy. Then the First World War has been raging across the vast expanse of Europe, the Tsar's family was still alive, and they all have been ignorantly hoping that dissemination of Bolshevik's plague would be easily restrained.

Sephiroth was proud to be one of the youngest high ranking officers of tsarist Russia. When Bolshevik's revolution put an end to his dreams he was the first one to volunteer and join Kappel's resistance, which widened the national split even further.

It was inevitable. There was something greater than life and happiness of a single person.

The Great Russian Idea.

Long subtle fingers in skin-tight suede gloves circled the handle of his saber, clenching with force; he never parted with the blade, even as his personal revolver lay on the table behind. Sephiroth lost count of all those times the saber saved his life and honor on the battlefield.

The floor shook underneath his feet when the train abruptly picked up speed, the taiga blurring into a thin line and outside the window puffs of black smoke floated in the air.

It seemed an eternity has passed since that fateful 1918, an eternity of great victories and bitter disillusionments, fatal mistakes and audacious success none believed in. Those short months contained so many events that even the Great War seemed an easy airing compared to the tension, anxiety and his constant inner struggle. When he fought German enemies, it was all clear and simple -- fulfill the order, protect his motherland and return home. Now the General had to kill the likes of him, Russians deep in their soul, shamelessly deceived by the Bolshevik Party; his enemies were former workers and peasants, manipulated by a handful of red internationalists and socialist revolutionaries, all those enemies of the Russian cause.

It didn't make it easier.

A brief commotion outside of his compartment disrupted the flow of his thoughts. Sephiroth frowned, silver eyebrows knitting into thin line. He specifically asked not to be disturbed.

His personal adjutant's voice sounded firmly; he tried to explain his superior's will to the unwelcome guest, but was angrily interrupted. His visitor's voice was a melody, the one he would have a hard time confusing or forgetting.

"I am Major General Rhapsodos," it rang with its usual dramatic arrogance. "Let me in. Immediately."

"Forgive me, Your Honor. It's dark, I couldn't see your face…" his adjutant began to make hasty excuses. Sephiroth wasn't listening.

Genesis. Major General Genesis Rhapsodos. His battle comrade, his friend and his reckless lover. Their relationships were kept a profound secret, they took strong measures to hide them because if anyone was to find out… Such transgressions could not be forgiven and even their reputation and rank would not be able to save them from swift endless fall. Yet Sephiroth couldn't bring himself to end it and neither could Genesis; with wars being constantly on their heels, their love was an anchor, a faint thread of hope.

Love and the Great Russian Idea.

Their more personal meetings were short and rare; at times they could not allow themselves anything more than a kiss for months. It didn't matter; Genesis was the closest person Sephiroth would ever call family.

Refined fingers absent-mindedly passed over the right shoulder strap as if trying to brush off dust. Wanly smiling, Sephiroth turned around at the sound of the opening door.

"Good evening, Genesis."

His lover was pale, only fathomless cerulean eyes burning on his white face. Uncaring about his manners, which was such an unusual thing, he almost collapsed on one of the bunks and wearily asked without greeting him first.

"Have you heard news on Admiral Kolchak?"

Sephiroth inwardly strained.

"No. If either Kappel or Saharov received a telegram I would have known…"

Genesis hid his face in his palms for an instant, the brief gesture betraying his inner struggle. Sephiroth noticed that his long fingers trembled.

"Then you don't know," he drawled to take time, calming down. "The Supreme Ruler was detained in Nizhneudinsk…"

"When?" He snapped at once, his stone mask shattering.

"Yesterday. They claim it is a guard of honor, but we know better than that." Genesis' eyes blazed up with fury. "This is treason. The first Siberian Army has deprecated us."

The news was sinking in slowly, reluctantly, numb hollow nestling in his thoughts, and for an instant Sephiroth stood motionless, speechless.

Treason. Admiral Kolchak was more than a leader, he was a living symbol and now, with him betrayed, they might have to face the possibility that there could be traitors on this train as well. Sephiroth involuntarily rested his eyes on the revolver.

"Do you understand what it means?" Genesis finished, his voice getting louder and more demanding with each word.

Sephiroth curtly nodded, restraining himself. Fists unwittingly clenched as he turned towards the window again. Now there were two faces reflected in the dark glass, each one helplessly asking what would happen next, unwilling to voice it all out.

"The general engagement will have to be postponed." He said calmly, as if announcing a minor change in battle plan. "We don't have enough forces."

Genesis didn't finish his thought aloud, although he obviously had to think about it. They might not have enough to take urgent means and besiege Krasnoyarsk.

The news was a disaster.

"If they listened to me and let me deal with Zinevich when we had the chance," the redhead said with indignation, "none of it would have happened!"

Sephiroth was silent. He remembered that incident, a prime example of enemy's strategy. Hiding, waiting and striking when their actions would do most damage.

"Do you remember his appeal?" Genesis ironically snorted. "He called himself 'a son of a worker and a peasant'. Ignorant hypocrite! How can one have two fathers?"

He didn't have the chance to answer. After another, shorter, commotion his personal adjutant opened the door to his compartment and straightened, saluting.

"Your Honor! General Kappel is summoning a council of war."

… Later at night, after the brief meeting was over, and the generals determined a rough course of countermeasures, lovers had some time for themselves. The luggage car was empty as usually, and they knew there they would not be heard and disturbed.

The train was approaching one of the stations and would most likely stop there. They had little time.

As soon as the door behind them closed, hot lips groped for each other in thick darkness, joining in a hungry kiss. Sephiroth hasn't kissed Genesis for weeks, and couldn't suppress a low wanton moan when the lush taste of his lover's flesh got on his tongue.

Genesis' demanding fingers undid his greatcoat, unbuttoned his soldier's blouse, finding all sensitive spots on his neck with soft lips. It was sheer bliss, a breath of fresh air after days and days of hopeless flight.

In turn Sephiroth threw off his wide trousers; the redhead impatiently turned around, clutching the luggage upright, breathing heavily. Long fingers wrapped around his lover's slender thighs, unclothing them.

Genesis was hot inside, so frail between his thighs, so eagerly yielding, obeying abrupt demanding rhythm and pace of their love he set. Slender body trembled in his hands, so hungry to his caress as a starving wanderer, perfectly strained, perfectly built. Sephiroth couldn't hold out longer, finally reaching Genesis' core and freezing.

Their loud twofold moan mingled with the monotonous rumble of wheels.

Sephiroth's fingers drowned in silky luster of his lover's soft auburn hair, lips clinging to the arch of his neck as the redhead melted in his arms, leaning against the luggage. His hot quickened breath tickled General's skin.

For a while they stood in each other's embrace in utter silence, drowning in peaceful waves of aftermath bliss until the redhead asked, fingers gently and wearily sliding underneath his slightly damp blouse.

"Do you remember how we first met?"

Sephiroth closed his eyes, reveling in his lover's caress, silver head falling onto his chest when the train abruptly jerked, halting.

Yes, he remembered.

* * *

_Fall of 1911, Saint Petersburg._

The sympathy between them sparked at once when their eyes met for the first time, and emerald green of spring leaves drowned in celestial blueness. Sephiroth knew he was cursed from the moment he spotted a slender frame of a young redheaded cadet in the crowd of his peers. It was the fall of 1911, his fated 1911, when he entered the Pavlov Military Academy.

At first Sephiroth thought that his perfect sight played a trick with him. He absently wondered if his eyes caught sight of a petite woman with laughing fathomless cerulean eyes, but thereupon he had to remind himself that there was no place for girls on that day on the square in front of the Academy.

Sun shone brightly and faint wind was gently playing with first yellow leaves. Having folded his arms, Sephiroth watched the redhead make his way through the crowd of identical cadets, all dressed in blue uniform with golden buttons. His behavior didn't escape Sephiroth's notice, his manners to treat the others, his slightly lifted chin and a haughty curve of rich lips. There was something inveigling in the way he moved, with ever so taunting grace of a feline.

Sephiroth knew he was looking at the youth too intently; the redhead noticed, flashing an enigmatic smile at him. He shouldn't look at him like that. With that thought Sephiroth averted his face, looked up.

This cadet was from a noble family; and who was he? He was a boy from a nameless orphan asylum, who achieved everything by himself. There was an endless pit between them.

"What is your name?"

Sephiroth flinched when the melody of the redhead's voice rang from behind. What did the latter want? He turned towards and was met by a warm genuine smile.

For a moment Sephiroth was speechless; for eighteen years he was a loner, never used to being treated like that. His arms were still folded, as if he was trying to fence off an unwanted cheerful interlocutor.

"Sephiroth." His answer was cold, reserved.

"And mine is Genesis. Let's be friends."

No one has ever said those words to him before.

* * *

_30th December, 1919; echelon of Commander in Chief's headquarters, Achinsk._

It was a clear frosty day. Sun was looking down from the cold-blue sky, smiling hauntingly, yet without warmth. The silver-haired general threw his greatcoat over his shoulders, looked out of the window, catching glimpses of people hastily rushing along the platform. It was more than a second day since the armored train had stopped by this station. They were resolutely approaching Krasnoyarsk.

The army followed through taiga. How many of his soldiers would make it on time? How many would make it at all?

The Major General was about to reach for the door knob when a dreadful noise cut through his ears followed by the terrible swaying of the train floor. Glass shattered in the window, spilling onto the floor and ground in a smooth flow of glistening shards. Grabbing his revolver Sephiroth ran out into the street. There he caught sight of General Saharov with a rifle.

His first thought was: "Where is Genesis?!"

"He is still in town." Saharov had to strain his voice to shout down desperate yells and moans.

Few bodies lay on the platform, still warm, shuddering in last convulsions on virgin white snow. Sephiroth shot a brief glance at them, noticing at once that their wounds seemed fatal. A woman ran past him, covering her bloodied face, followed by two soldiers with a stretcher. Therein lay a man, withering and screaming from pain, a bloody red fountain gushing from his thigh where the leg used to be.

Snow and blood.

Sephiroth looked at the train. Some cars were burning, throwing hungry red-hot tongues of flames upwards, to the peaceful welkin in an all-consuming rage. He had to cover his eyes from the brightness.

An officer with a small child went past. The boy was choking with tears, innocent eyes full of unconcealed terror; he was obediently following the man, a frail hand in the latter's coarse one, only repeating: "Mommy… mo-o-mmy, I want to see my mommy…"

Sephiroth averted his eyes. That child's face… it was the face of a war. Seeing it never stopped hurting.

General Saharov was already issuing curt orders to stop the fire and deal with the wounded. He had to join in, but as he took first steps towards the superior officer, Genesis appeared in the end of the platform. The Major General hurried towards his lover.

The redhead looked slightly bewildered.

"What happened here?"

Sephiroth said nothing, just took those last steps that separated them and embraced him tightly. How could he explain if he wasn't quite sure himself? Was it a random ambush or another treason?

Genesis returned his hug.

"I am so tired of war. When is it going to end?"

And once again Sephiroth said nothing, just tightened his grip around the redhead's shoulders.

They had to believe it was going to end.

They had to have faith in themselves, in their strength, since he never believed in anything but.

Unlike most of his comrades, he didn't believe in God.

There was no God.

* * *

_Winter of 1911, Saint Petersburg._

They were kneeling in front of the iconostasis of their small church on the Academy grounds. It was a small modest parish and father Vitaliy took care of all the cadets by himself. This chapel was nothing like the huge churches where the Tsar's family would pray.

All of them were kneeling, listening to father's Vitaliy chant-like mumblings in old Slavic language; Sephiroth never understood a word of it, not that he tried.

It was their early evening prayer. Later they would have free time before going to bed. Sephiroth couldn't wait for the prayer to end. He wanted to spend that time with his new friend.

He shifted his eyes to Genesis who was by his side as always. He seemed to be absorbed in reverence for holy place. His lips were moving; it looked like the redhead was praying. His lips… Sephiroth's thoughts were definitely a blasphemy in a place like this.

He couldn't hold back a smirk. He had to pretend otherwise he would never become an officer.

Suddenly he leaned closer and whispered into the redhead's ear; his question was born out of pure curiosity.

"Do you believe in God, Genesis?"

"God?" Faint, melodic chuckle. "No, I don't. God has forsaken our land."

* * *

_4th January, 1920; echelon of Commander in Chief's headquarters, Minino._

The burst of machine gun fire awoke Sephiroth. He sat up on his bunk, hastily buttoned the light brown soldier's blouse and pulled on his black leather boots. Pale hand reached out for the revolver and he felt reassured when long fingers felt familiar chill of metal. As helpless as he would be with it against a machine gun it was better to die with a weapon in his hand rather than unarmed and defenseless.

It was better to take at least one last enemy down with him than none at all.

In swift measured strides the General exited his compartment and headed for the main car. Him and Kappel were the last to walk inside.

"Gentlemen," Sephiroth was calm and polite as he exchanged nods and greetings. Grim, fixed looks met his; the table was already covered in light-gray cigarette ash and thick clouds of dove-colored smoke hung in dead air.

He didn't smoke.

"It was a brief encounter with the Red troops," Saharov began. "We breached their defenses successfully. The railway station is ours."

"What is the situation with the second and third armies?"

"The third army will make it to Krasnoyarsk in a day's time only. The losses are extremely heavy." Kappel lowered his gaze, adding in a low voice, "two thirds perished in the depths of taiga."

Something froze inside him, like winter's ice. Two thirds? Those were thousands and thousands of men.

"What of the second?" Sephiroth forced those words out of his throat. None noticed.

"The regiments are still arriving. They seem more or less… fit for upcoming battle."

An adjutant rushed through the door.

"Let me report, Your Honor," he addressed Commander in Chief Kappel. "An armored train with a red flag is approaching. Our rifle companies started a retreat. Should we continue?"

The generals exchanged weary glances.

"We don't have enough forces yet…" Saharov began with uncertain notes, but none, not even the hot-tempered redhead, objected. The young man dashed out of the room at once.

Sephiroth followed him with his gaze and then returned his eyes to the fellow generals. His look was stern.

"We will have to abandon the train and continue on sleigh."

It was an apt decision, only it was made too late.

* * *

_Spring of 1912, Saint Petersburg._

It was late Sunday evening. They didn't have lessons on weekends, just the regular military training.

Sephiroth sat on the ground in knee-high green grass, leaning against the trunk of an old tree. He could feel its rough bark through light cloth of his soldier's blouse.

The alley was dark and empty; perhaps, all the cadets were getting ready to sleep. The discipline at the Academy was stern thus any delays were severely punished. They should be getting back soon.

Genesis stood two or three steps away from him, his head thrown back, dreamy and calm face turned towards the sky. Clear azure eyes were sparkling as newly born stars. He was citing Pushkin by heart.

Sephiroth was familiar with poetry, yet one thing was reading a book and another --drowning in a beautiful melody of his friend's voice, in perfectly voiced out lines and words, which at times seemed as a purl of a small streamlet.

Sephiroth smiled. He liked when Genesis read poetry for him, every feeling and emotion new, yet for all that strangely pleasant. None at the orphanage ever bothered to read books to him.

"Do you like Pushkin?" The redhead suddenly asked, interrupting himself in the middle of a poem.

Sephiroth smirked s bit.

"You know my preferences. I find Lermontov more to my liking." Genesis hemmed, taking a seat by his side. "Disappointed?"

They were close now; as of lately it began stirring strange emotions in him, those he couldn't recognize. He's never felt anything to anyone, and now it confused and even alerted. Sometimes. That day was different. Sephiroth suddenly felt calm, anticipating something yet not fully understanding what.

Genesis waved aside.

"Poetry or no poetry… I've never heard you talking about your family. Perhaps, I've dinned it into your ears, but I've told you everything and… I expect the same from you."

Sephiroth sighed, absently folding his arms and tensing.

"I don't wish to talk about it." He looked up, avoiding the redhead's eyes. "You know, I only heard my mother's name. Jenova. It is not a Russian name."

"Sounds French to me." Genesis was eager to make assumptions, to speculate. He didn't understand that it was hard.

"It doesn't matter," his replica was short and cold.

Genesis noticed a faint glint in emerald depths. He was good at reading people. Sephiroth felt long fingers gently stroking his shoulder, the touch getting bolder since he didn't object. Then cerulean eyes stared into his own, as if trying to penetrate all the barriers, to look right into his soul and Genesis kissed him.

Their lips joined slowly, warily, irresolutely, in a first bashful kiss. Arms tenderly wrapped around his neck, fingers plunging into flamboyant waterfall of virgin silver. Something was torn inside him as a stretched string and his heart began pounding louder. He couldn't hold out, opening his mouth, letting the redhead revel in light teasing caresses. He's never kissed anyone before.

Kissing Genesis was wrong; he shouldn't have allowed it and yet nothing ever felt more right in his entire life.

Suddenly Genesis moved away a bit.

"Did you like it?" Playful glint in sky-blue eyes was hard to miss.

Sephiroth drew forward and instead of answering awkwardly clung to those hot lithe lips.

At that moment all words were unnecessary.

* * *

_5th January, 1920; near Krasnoyarsk._

Cold wind was as a slap across his cheek, its ruthless gusts throwing snowflakes into his face. They danced and whirled, landing on his skin and melting, melting, melting… Long silver tresses flew asunder, scattered by the sheer force of blizzard.

Major General Sephiroth gripped the bit tighter and gracefully flung himself into the saddle in one swift studied move. His jet-black steed didn't even flinch, neighing softly, recognizing him.

In his overcoat he seemed a chiseled statue, his haughty frame visible even in the storm. Sephiroth cast a glance his lover. Genesis mounted his horse, but couldn't wait, impatiently turning the steed towards Krasnoyarsk, disappearing from his sight in a whirl of snowflakes.

Saharov and Kappel were already ahead of them.

Sephiroth shifted his gaze towards the train. The officers were unloading hay, ammunition and provision, dividing it between the sleighs. They had too many extra things that will slow their advance. It could be fatal. The General frowned.

The decision to leave the train was made, but it wasn't that easy to accomplish. Such changes never went smoothly and took up to three or four days to work out and their time was scarce.

Frozen on the steed's back, Sephiroth patiently watched, as the thin column began to stretch, dozens of sleighs following one after another, sliding into approaching storm. The horse pranced, neighing loudly; he tightened the bit, calming down the animal.

Genesis appeared out of the thickening veil, returning, his steed dancing with impatience, infected with the same agitation the redhead felt.

"It's time to go, Sephiroth!" He called out.

The Major General curtly nodded. All officers were out of their moving headquarters by now. It was time to continue their advance, hoping against hope that Krasnoyarsk could still be taken.

Sephiroth urged his horse, following his impatient lover. Soon the railway station disappeared behind them, shrouded in thick white veil.

It was only snow now.

Soon it would be marred with blood.


	2. Chapter II: Short eternity

_Summary_: Historical AU. Siberian Ice march. White Army is retreating, suffering great losses from Reds, frost and typhus. In the middle of nowhere, torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life.

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings_: Sephiroth/Genesis

_A/N_: This is a very fresh and exciting idea. I'll finish it before continuing my other story. I feel I'm going to finish it soon :) I just love writing every sentence of it!

And my special thanks to my dear sphinxofthenile as always :)

_**Short list of names, events and personalities:**_

_Batyushka_ – (father); informal way of addressing a White officer, widely spread among Siberian peasants during the Siberian Ice March.

_The Second Battle of the Masurian Lakes (February 1915) and the Brusilov Offensive (June-August 1916)_ – battles between Russian and German with Austro-Hungarian troops during WW1.

_Voitsehovsky S._ – Commander of the second army since fall of 1919; Commander in Chief of the Eastern front after Kappel's death on 26th January 1920.

_Tsarskoe Selo_ – village about 30 km (18 miles) from St. Petersburg, where many rich noble families had summer residences.

_Verst_ – an old Russian measure of distance that is equal to 3500 feet or 1.6 km.

* * *

_**Chapter II.**_

_**Short eternity.**_

_Late at night, 5th January, 1920; Minino._

The storm has subsided, and sparse snowflakes were falling lazily, glistening as satin weave in bright lights of a ballroom. The clouds have dispersed, and thin silver crescent vividly shone on black velvety canopy, bestrewn with huge diamonds of twinkling stars. Frosty air was clear, invigorating, and so impossibly fresh after dead still atmosphere of the smoke filled council room.

He inhaled, closing his eyes, his breathing followed by white cloud of vapor that escaped barely parting thin lips. Sephiroth wearily rested his head against the wooden doorway of a hut. Waves of fatigue rolled in, taking their toll after sleepless nights and tense struggle. His fit of cold anger was short, and now he regretted it. It wouldn't have changed a thing.

A silent shadow appeared by his side. He took a squint at the fellow general, recognizing Saharov and then noticing a red flash of a cigarette.

"None of us is happy with Voitsehovsky's decision," he began, taking a puff. "But he persuaded Kappel, and nothing could be done about it."

Sephiroth nodded, agreeing, yet that strange feeling that they were making a huge mistake didn't disappear.

"Without taking Krasnoyarsk we would be trapped between the city and approaching Red troops. It would be a perfect opportunity for our enemies to slam the mousetrap."

"Voitsehovsky claims the city's garrison was strengthened. Shetinkin and his regiments went up from south."

Sephiroth thoughtfully hemmed.

"If you still were our Commander in Chief, would you make a different decision?" Saharov slowly nodded, throwing out the cigarette butt. "Then why did you abandon the post?"

"It was not my decision." It seemed that the General heavily sighed. "On that meeting with the Admiral one of his ministers insisted that the public was dissatisfied with my… actions. I asked who that public was. Zemstvo, cooperatives was his answer. All those… socialist organizations." He shook his head, vexed. "I resigned, still unaware of how deeply treason had poisoned our rows of Siberian army."

Sephiroth closed his eyes again.

"Socialists… followers of that new religion of hatred." His words were barely a whisper.

Short silence ensued. Then Saharov ironically smirked.

"Have you heard? Zinevich was arrested. He somehow didn't please the Bolsheviks."

The traitor betrayed. There was nothing new there. He should have known better than to make deals with Bolsheviks; bargains with the Devil, as some called them. Only he didn't believe in devil. There were no beings crueler and more cynical than men. Sephiroth suddenly remembered the Great War. Saharov noticed his state.

"What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing." He calmly shrugged, folding his arms and looking up at the peaceful sky. "We should rest before tomorrow. It would be a hard day."

Saharov nodded, disappearing in the heated hut, chosen for their temporary headquarters in Minino. Sephiroth was left alone again.

At first memories of the Great War flooded his thoughts, but all too soon roar of artillery pieces vanished in verdant green grass and sky-blue eternity of pure welkin and Genesis' eyes…

* * *

_Summer of 1912, Tsarskoe Selo. _

Genesis led two thoroughbred chestnuts out of his father's stalls. Grooms have already harnessed them and the redhead firmly placed the bit of one of the horses into his gloved hand. The noble animal sniffed, and Sephiroth patted its neck to calm it down.

A smug smirk played across Genesis' fine features.

"I want it to be a fair contest. These stallions are of the same age."

He returned the smirk, equally smug, challenge sparkling in emerald depths.

"I hope you know how to ride a horse," the silver-haired youth teased the other. Genesis snorted.

"You could say I was born in the saddle."

Together they headed to the endlessly green field, here and there dotted with huge haycocks.

"What does your father think of it?" Sephiroth suddenly asked. "I know he doesn't approve our… friendship."

If it was just friendship… Genesis shrugged, in his usual nonchalant, haughty manner. He was impulsive, hot-tempered and sometimes way too reckless.

"My father is rather narrow-minded in the question of descent and lineage. Normally I would agree with him, but you…" Sky-blue eyes met his, suddenly deep and sparkling with emotions.

Sephiroth halted, turning aside. He felt awkward, somehow unwanted, when reminded of his origin. If it was a problem, he would leave and never come back. He always knew he was special, proud of being able to achieve that much, and if it didn't satisfy anyone… Silver-haired youth looked over his shoulder, refined profile hidden in streams of pure silver.

"You very well know that social origin doesn't bother me. Whether you are a peasant, a noble or an orphan all that matters is becoming a Russian Officer."

Genesis arrogantly hemmed, tilting his head.

"You are not one of those ignorant peasants. I bet you have noble blood in your veins."

Sephiroth said nothing and they resumed walking.

At the end of their military studies Genesis invited him to spend holidays at his parent's summer residence. Sephiroth agreed; after all, he had nowhere to return to but his orphanage. Genesis' father took an instant dislike of him because of his poor social origin; him and the redhead had a fight.

Sephiroth would have left if it wasn't for Genesis' ardent desire to see him by his side. Deep in his heart he was glad that the redhead contrived to persuade him to stay. It meant that in his case lineage didn't bother his lover.

"Here," Genesis abruptly stopped again, in the middle of the field, drawing a long line with his boot. "And the finish line would be…"

"By that haycock." Sephiroth suggested, pointing towards a barely visible hump on the ground and garcefully mounting his horse.

The redhead just nodded, following his example. Cerulean depths were on fire, eagerness to find out who was the best showed in his every abrupt impatient gesture.

Heels dug into the steed's sides, urging the mount forward. It neighed, obeying; wind spurted in his face, scattering long silver hair. Sephiroth gracefully flattened himself along horse's neck, and stood up just a bit, feeling its strained muscles between his knees. Colors, surroundings blurred, and hoofbeat blended with the loud pounding of his heart.

Genesis was ahead of him, but never got to taste the triumph. Just before the finish line Sephiroth's stallion drew away, winning just by half a length.

The silver-haired youth drew the reins, stopping his horse, and shot a superior look at his friend. Thin lips curved into a haughty smirk.

"I won this time."

Genesis just turned his steed around, silently suggesting another round. After the fifth one he finally got his desired victory and the angry crease between his eyebrows was smoothed away. Dismounting and letting the stallion chew on lush grass he jumped onto the amazingly soft haycock. Long fingers casually unbuttoned his white shirt.

Sephiroth watched his lover for an instant before joining in. Hay bore an intoxicating fresh smell of mown flowers and grass. He inhaled deeply, rolling over to his stomach and digging his fingers into mellow grass.

Before this summer he didn't know such simple yet precious things, and even something as mundane as lying on a fresh haycock seemed a luxury. Sephiroth smiled, letting his head drop. The sensation of peace was overwhelming.

Genesis leaned over to him, his palms gently yet suggestively slid underneath his damp flaxen blouse, slowly taking it off over his head, tenderly caressing his skin. He didn't object.

Since that spring kiss their caresses got more sensual with each passing time they were together.

Sephiroth felt lean muscular and half-naked body being pressed against his own, heat flushing his abdomen at once.

Soft lips clung to his neck, finding their way and joining with his. Sephiroth responded, shifting so that the redhead found himself in his tight embrace.

The kiss was slow, infatuating with promise and passion, unwound as an endless thread of the fatal sisters.

Suddenly Sephiroth moved away a bit, catching a breath.

"What if your parents see us?" He tried to object, feeling that even though he was speaking the right words he was going to lose it soon.

"They won't, none comes here on this time of day."

With those words Genesis' fingers resolutely reached for his pants; they have never gone that far, yet the mere thought of it could shatter his cold weir. Undoing buttons, they passed over his heated flesh in a subtle caress.

His body trembled, responding to the unfamiliar yet pleasant touch too eagerly; Sephiroth looked up, drowning in passion tinged celestial blueness, darker than usually. Unbuttoned, disarrayed Genesis was a beautiful firing sight, unruly auburn hair falling all over his face, inflamed with warm rays of setting sun.

Passion was inside him. Forbidden passion. Impossible. Wrong. They shouldn't… Moan escaped thin lips, shameless, voluptuous, back arched in Genesis' palms, slender yet strong, silver cascading over his shoulders, alive, streaming, molten. He was breathing heavily as Genesis' tongue and lips played with his overly sensitive nipples, alternating between teasing and biting, between exuberant passion and tender caress. His fingers clutched redhead's shoulders, clasping him to his rising chest, encouraging to go on. Forever.

Even though they… shouldn't… yet his hands were already reaching out, sliding along unclothed creamy thighs. So unbelievably hot, he thought, so smooth, so strained.

Their kiss was a melody, intoxicating as a waltz, prolonged when Genesis' legs obediently parted and he penetrated his lover with a jerk. The redhead's lissome body arched into his, accepting with readiness; refined face with parted swollen lips glistened from sweat.

Genesis was always lavish, yielding himself.

Sephiroth tried to be gentle during their first time together, yet couldn't hold out, losing his cold demeanor with each abrupt thrust that brought him closer to the brink, with each acute moan, wrung from perfectly shaped lush mouth. Faster. Stronger. Deeper.

Their twofold cry was born out of sheer flames as he felt something hot spreading on his stomach, and in it was so much pure bliss as there would never be in paradise, promised by their chaplain, father Vitaliy.

It was their first mundane passion, first bold, intoxicating with its wrongness and ardor, love.

Soft haycock accepted their damp flushed bodies and the redhead immediately nestled up to him, resting his head on his shoulder.

"Your eyes… they blend with the grass." His words were an evanescent breeze on his skin.

Sephiroth smiled, listening to his own quickened breath and heartbeat. Emeralds sparkled as he suddenly said, words passing his lips without much thought.

"You wanted to know about my family. I have none. My… mother died, giving birth to me."

He averted his face. Why was he even talking about it? Why did it feel… so right? He never…

Genesis stirred so that their eyes would meet again. His face was serious.

"Now I can see you trust me."

He found an unremarkable spot on the darkening sky. Fingers were absently playing with auburn hair. The smell of summer flowers and grass besotted his senses, all his thoughts suddenly clear. Something winged was born in his chest with the redhead's words, something that could not be described, replacing the ever present empty coldness.

Evening was approaching and even as warm wind turned chiller, cooling their heated naked bodies, they lay still in each other's embrace. Sephiroth was thinking of nothing, when the redhead suddenly lifted his head from his chest.

"Forever yours," Genesis whispered with genuine passion and desire. It took him only a moment to answer.

"Forever yours," his weak response rustled in return, and thin lips parted for another long hungry kiss.

Then he didn't know war. He didn't know how to be bitter, and they were too young, too naïve. After all, how long did their forever last? Two years? More? Less?

He didn't remember.

* * *

_6th January, 1920; Krasnoyarsk._

The short column began to stretch on the white road with first bashful rays of the rising winter sun. Their plan was to break through the enemy's lines and into Yesaulskiy village, where the nearest river crossing situated.

Even despite the bitter frost it was impossible to cross Yenisey anywhere else; the river's banks were steep and precipitous, inaccessible for sledges and carts.

They advanced slowly, often halting. New units have been constantly joining their ranks, flowing into the stream of sleighs as thin rivulets. 4th then 8th rifle division, 2nd cavalry regiment…

Sephiroth watched his men with apprehension. Long tiresome march through taiga left a visible mark on them; he only saw coarsened faces, hardened, sharp eyes, strong-willed bearings. Nothing was left of those young chivalrous officers, eager to give their lives for their Motherland.

Many of them didn't see a war before, and the notion of beautiful death, covered with striking glory, used to lend wings to those youngest and most naïve. He was not one of them; he had a chance to know how a war looked like.

He knew that death was always ugly.

Sephiroth spent almost all the time in the saddle, dismounting just for short conversations with arriving colonels; his back was growing numb from the frost and frequent stops. His new clothing wasn't helping at that, shapeless, awfully uncomfortable; he had to put it on top of his uniform in Minino. The local old-timers warned that frosts would only get worse yet still Sephiroth could consider himself lucky; some of the others looked like helpless human stumps.

He could only keep closer to Genesis; from time to time they would exchange hasty dark glances. His lover looked tired, but, likely, he didn't look better.

The misty predawn morning imperceptibly passed into a doleful bleak day. Clear welkin hid behind the accumulating clouds, low, threatening, and dismal.

An order came from Kappel himself around noon. The Commander in Chief ordered a halt. It appeared that all roads north of Krasnoyarsk were occupied by Red troops. They ran into their vanguard. Battles began. The endless column stopped, and Sephiroth couldn't see what was going on ahead. The Major General only heard short staccato sounds of machine gun bursts which broke the suddenly still winter air like barking voices, calling to one another. The Reds would begin, they would answer.

Sephiroth's and Genesis' orders to brace themselves rang in vain; by the time the battle reached them people were strained and ready, the anxiety of the wait getting unbearable.

The Major General remembered how it all began vaguely. He had just ordered to detach all machine guns from horses and get them ready, when the column quivered, moved; a couple of sleighs swept past, people shouting that there were Reds advancing from west. He stopped a pale infantryman; from him he got to know that their troops managed to take the village but then found themselves under the fire from nearby hills. His orders were short and clear; it seemed Genesis thought the same way. They commanded to dismount and use the sleigh and carts as a cover.

Thereupon the battle overtook them.

Sephiroth saw them first through the narrow gap between the makeshift barricades. Red cavalry. He didn't know how many, the visibility in the mist was terrible. And just like it always happened with him in fights, thoughts suddenly became light and clear, like rare strokes of a pen. He aimed his rifle, pulled the trigger, reloaded, aimed, and fired again. His moves were mechanical, and he rarely missed. Men began to die, flinging their arms wildly, falling onto the snow to never get up again. Then their machine guns returned to life, tearing the straight lines of enemies apart, horses and men mingling into a bloody medley.

He didn't know how many wounded they had, but it couldn't be many. The Reds barely had time to fire, suddenly turning their horses around and hastily retreating. They obviously didn't expect any resistance.

Sephiroth shot a brief glance to the left; Genesis was firing one of the Maxims, his face calm, concentrated as if he was doing a routine job. Routine indeed. The Major General reloaded his rifle for the last time, freezing, flattened against the cold winter ground.

The enemies didn't let them wait for too long.

…After successfully repelling another assault they were left in peace. Sephiroth had time to look around, evaluate the damage and think of what to do next.

The news was unconsoling. Albeit they didn't suffer much damage, had only a handful of wounded and dead, the remaining regiment was separated from the main forces; it seemed that in the ensuing chaos the army broke into the small units. Some of them still held their ground, others retreated. Sephiroth and Genesis were left as blind newborn kittens without any knowledge of their staff officers' fate. Where was Saharov, Kappel? Where was the rest of the army?

It was obvious they couldn't remain in this snow covered wasteland any longer. Genesis managed to find a colonel, a man with a harsh face, obviously baptized by countless battles, and together the three of them had a brief talk. All came to one decision. They needed to find the remains of their forces.

"Tackle up!" Sephiroth shouted. His adjutant, who survived and didn't get lost miraculously, carried on and soon he heard cries and neighs ringing in still air.

The regiment returned to life. Soldiers hastily harnessed horses into the machine guns, picked up the wounded, placing them onto the sleighs, got inside. Bypassing men's and steed's corpses the column pulled out on the road and hastily advanced.

Sephiroth mounted, riding around the troops, encouraging men, his chiseled back visible far ahead. They were ready to break through anything. They were not ready for just one thing.

The Red artillery moved forward from Krasnoyarsk, striking at their back.

Their ill-assorted regiment, half infantry, half cavalry, has just passed another battle scene with sleighs turned upside down, bodies scattered all over, dressed in their uniform, in the Red's overcoats. Death finally equaled and reconciled them. An abandoned machine gun stood as a lone frame, towering above the blood marred snow. The scene disappeared from his view when the Major General heard that unforgettable thunder roar.

"Artillery!" Genesis shouted, pointing to the south. He barely nodded, halting his black stallion. Dissatisfied with the treatment it loudly neighed. Gloved hand absently passed over its glossy, sweaty – despite all the frost – back. Sephiroth suddenly realized he had no idea how long they've been fleeing. Thick grey clouds drew lower, the sun dimmed, foreshadowing early winter evening.

His orders were cold and curt. Leave all unnecessary things, all extra clothing, even one of their machine guns behind. The column began moving a bit faster. Was it fast enough? Sephiroth looked over his shoulder. Nothing. Just plain white wasteland, here and there dotted with helpless corpses…

They came from the east. At first he mistook them for enemies, and even fired his revolver until realized that those were White forces. Only instead of an organized unit, it was a crowd of crestfallen prisoners. Unarmed, they ran up to them, shouting:

"The war is over!"

"Our army doesn't exist!"

"Put down your weapons!"

Sephiroth clenched his teeth. He would fight till death. The Colonel's anxious face appeared before his eyes, dark shadows clearly visible underneath his eyes.

"What are we going to do?"

"Cut our way!" He snapped coldly, sharply. They wouldn't see his inner turmoil, they couldn't see it; he had to be strong, otherwise the regiment would soon turn into an unthinking disordered mass of people.

They had to think he knew what he was doing, even if he was not sure himself.

"Move on!" Sephiroth shouted, thrusting his arm forward, abruptly, half-rising in the stirrups so that everyone saw his gesture, and urged his horse to move faster. "DO NOT HALT!"

Thin line of prisoners disappeared as well, turning into a black dot, followed by the Reds. They attacked abruptly, charging with the bayonet. In turn the Whites opened fire, and the fickle advantage was on their side until the Major General suddenly heard that unforgettable sound of machine gun burst. Bullets tore through horses and men, overturning the sledges, yells followed, merging with ruthless staccato sounds.

They had no time to stop and ready their machine guns.

Bullets swished by, hitting someone behind, raising waves of snow right in front of his black stallion. Icicles tore through his pale cheek; the Major General didn't even notice.

He could only hope his horse wouldn't fall or he was as good as dead.

Sephiroth shouted like a madman, his voice blending with Genesis'. They simultaneously gave an order to part, half of the regiment followed his lover, another followed him; it was the only way to break through the line of gunfire and out of the Red's reach. Sleighs turned, the column parted, bypassing the enemy, and while the Reds didn't recover from bewilderment, unsure who to follow, they swept past, leaving dead and wounded behind.

The only thing his enemies contrived to do was separate their two columns, not letting them join again and soon Sephiroth lost Genesis in approaching dusk.

The furious chase continued till night. They ran into some more Red units; now Sephiroth didn't even stop to fire a single bullet from his revolver. He lost his rifle a long time ago.

His goal was to throw the pursuers off, and he managed it.

The Major General vaguely remembered how he made it to the Yesaulskiy village. The endless white road, snow underneath his steed's hoofs, strewn about in every direction, creaking of the sledge runners, short bursts of machine gun fire rarely followed by death cries and a growing black hollow inside him were numbing.

Where was his lover?

They made it, Sephiroth and those men who followed him when the Major Generals separated the column. Sephiroth saved a half of the regiment, more than a half of a thousand people.

Was it many? Or too few?

Upon entering the first hut Sephiroth collapsed on the bed without bothering to undress, almost dead from fatigue and anxiety for Genesis. Leaden eyelids closed at once, and the Major General dropped into dreamless slumber.

…In the morning Sephiroth learned that sporadic fire and random battles lasted all day. Something unimaginable, unprecedented in history of warfare went on the expanse of the dozens of versts. The White army lost all artillery, most of its machine guns, wagons and about sixty thousands of wounded, dead or captured. The tragedy of the battle for Krasnoyarsk was the last but one act of treason.

To those who made it to Yenisey and camped for the night it seemed that the Russian White Army, the same Army that gained so many splendid victories, ceased to exist.

The remains were all hoping for a miracle.

He didn't believe in miracles.

* * *

_Fall of 1914, Saint Petersburg._

"I am getting married, Sephiroth."

They were walking down the alley of a huge park; it was late fall, yet the day was surprisingly warm. The crystalline clear sky sparked with bright sun rays and crispy yellow leaves rustled underneath his black leather boots in rare yet faint gusts of cold wind, heralds and constant reminders of approaching cold.

It was the last parting salute of summer before the frosty winter.

Sephiroth's hands were crossed behind his back as he was intently watching his lover. Genesis wore his usual overcoat, gorgeous as always, celestial blue eyes clearer then the welkin above. Sunlight spots danced in their depths, making them warmer.

It was one of their pleasurable airings, their conversation casual, light; they discussed politics, current state of warfare, commenting on Russia getting involved in the World War, condition of their army, soldier's and officer's morale, arms. They looked like two Officers, talking about their own affairs, until Genesis abruptly blurted out the news.

Sephiroth flinched, still not realizing what his lover has just said, surprised at how calm his voice rang. "When?"

Genesis lowered his gaze, halting in the middle of an alley. Cold autumn wind disheveled his auburn hair.

"Next month."

Sephiroth still couldn't really comprehend what was going on. Genesis was getting married… how… why…

"Who is she?" His questions were still calm and dispassionate as if he was discussing the purchase of a new colt or revolver.

"Katherine Orlova." The redhead's voice was suddenly reserved and wary. "Our fathers have been friends for the last decade."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Something began to crumble inside as the dam under pressure of water.

"I… thought…" he faltered, still hiding his eyes. "I thought it wouldn't change anything."

Sephiroth harshly laughed. Wouldn't change a thing… What was Genesis thinking about?!

"Why?" His deep voice was cold now and face a stone mask. Genesis wouldn't see his agony.

"If I didn't get married, my father would disinherit me. It doesn't matter who will become my wife, so I agreed."

He tried to hide his pain by turning around, averting his face, yet his deep voice betrayed his hurt. "That's just petty, Genesis."

"Perhaps," the smooth ironic voice strained. Maybe, he somehow offended Genesis' pride. "But you don't know our implicit rules. If it was just money and estate my father was talking about I would spit on his requests. But it is my last name! He would bereave me of my last name, making me an outcast. I…" His melodic voice shook. "I would not survive such disgrace!"

Was it fury? Despair? Sephiroth couldn't tell.

"I am not sharing you with anyone," cold dark anger awoke somewhere deep within at the mere thought of someone else touching, kissing, caressing Genesis the way only he did. "You will have to choose."

Those words were forced. He knew it was right, even if a beast inside him screamed of claiming Genesis and never letting him go. Sephiroth couldn't make their relationship public, even if threatened by execution.

It would ruin them both, their careers, and their dreams. Their very lives.

"So you'll just let me go like this, forget it has ever happened?" Now it was a lament genuine, unhidden. Genesis came to stand in front of him, looking into his eyes, questioning with confusion. Sephiroth sighed.

"It is enough for me that our love has to be kept a profound secret."

"Do you understand that I can't make a different choice?" His lover's beautiful face, the one he was so used to seeing wreathed in a smile, was distorted by despair.

His was the same stone mask.

"And I can't share you with her or with anyone for that matter. After all, nothing binds us together. We can't get married, have a family, and rear children. And it is not my," he inwardly shuddered, "intention to cage you in any way."

He couldn't take this conversation any longer. His world suddenly turned into a black hollow. The redhead tried to explain something again, but Sephiroth cut him short. His lover made his decision. And so did he.

"Don't, Genesis. I am leaving for Eastern Prussia in a week."

With those words he abruptly turned around and walked away, leaving his lover standing in the empty alley in the waterfall of dead yellow leaves.

Sephiroth suddenly felt betrayed and empty.

…The news of his former lover's gorgeous wedding reached him on his way to Eastern Prussia, to the soon-to-be infamous city of Augustow where he would fight in the Second Battle of the Masurian Lakes .

He absent-mindedly asked himself if Genesis was happy.

Their eternity turned out to be quite short.

* * *

_7th January, 1920; Yesaulskiy village._

The morning was peaceful, the irony in it after the dreadfully uneasy night so unbearably cruel.

Sephiroth rose, hastily washed his face with cold clear water and hurried into the street. His saber and revolver were within his reach.

Pellucid air was bracing, the white snow sparked with silver and diamonds of the first water. It crunched underneath his boots with every step, its melody stirring. The Major General swiftly walked through the village, looking for every sign of survivors, staff officers and Genesis.

Was it possible that his lover didn't make it?

Sephiroth didn't wish to believe in it.

It was 7th January, Russian Christmas. Bells on a tall white church, built of stone, were ringing solemnly, calling all believers for an early prayer. Lines of peasants with serious bearded faces and cheerfully smiling girls and boys appeared on the road to the church, their rosed over with the brilliance of excitement faces flashing before his eyes as remnants of life he has long lost.

There, on the church square, he saw his fellow officers and soldiers. They stood, gathered in small groups, tired, with no signs of overall mirth on their haggard faces, so close and yet so detached as if being a part of a different world.

A part of a different life.

Two Russias met on that square; one was calm, peaceful, old and stately and the other – weary, exhausted, belligerent. Some of them were battling for six years and there was no end to their war.

War has become their life. It created and forged them; and in the end it would claim them.

Here and there Sephiroth would hear scraps of conversations, straining his ears, hoping to hear some news on Genesis' fate, a single word at least.

"How many made it alive?"

"Not more than a half…"

"Where are they going now?"

"North, along the Yenisey…"

"But there is only tundra there…"

News drove its sting through Sephiroth's head, ruthless, grave. "All roads and stations to the west are taken by the Reds. We'll never be able to pass…"

Emerald eyes slid along those groups, finally noticing a bigger one. To his surprise – he was still able to feel wonder, the Major General noted to himself absent-mindedly – Sephiroth saw General Saharov among those men.

Waving a hand in an informal greeting, he approached and they exchanged brief yet tight hugs.

"I see you made it alive, my friend." Sephiroth slowly nodded. "Voitsehovskiy and his three regiments headed north," Saharov showed him a route on the map he held in his hands. "I am getting a guide from the locals and going to follow him."

Again Sephiroth was silent, intently watching faces of every passerby. Saharov noticed his faraway look.

"Are you looking for something?"

"It's Genesis," the Major General returned his gaze to his fellow officer. "We got separated yesterday in that chaos."

Saharov nodded, understanding. "We know nothing of Kappel's fate as well."

For a while they stood in comfortable silence, then Saharov resolutely gestured in the general direction of the road.

"We are all moving out in an hour. Are going with us?" The question rang more like a statement. The General didn't expect Sephiroth's grave curt:

"No."

"Are you going to wait for Genesis? He is not coming, Sephiroth. Even if he is alive, what chances are that he wasn't taken captive or would ever get to Yesaulskiy? He could be with Kappel or on his own, anywhere."

The silver-haired General brushed a silver lock off his forehead. Saharov was right, yet it didn't change a thing. Emerald eyes were calm and stern.

"I am going to wait. Perhaps, someone will make it. If not Genesis, then others may still be out there, lost and unaware of our fate…" his voice trailed off.

The General shook his head, started to say something but cut himself short.

"Good luck," there was no mirth in Saharov's smile. They hugged again.

"Good luck," Sephiroth replied with the same ghost-like expression, playing across thin lips.

He headed for the school, for another group of officers he noticed. Saharov followed his slender silver-haired frame with his eyes. Perhaps, the ex-Commander felt that his undertaking was a suicide and the more Sephiroth thought of it himself the more it did seem as one.

If none came until evening he would be alone and he would never make it through taiga by himself. That meant that when the Reds come he would be an easy prey.

Sephiroth's fists clenched. He wouldn't leave his lover behind.

… From those officers Sephiroth learned that the Reds slowed their advance, taking their time to rob their wagons, those they left behind fleeing for their lives. He felt a bit reassured. He had time until evening.

The crowd of survivors dispersed; here and there Sephiroth heard ringing yells and orders, saw people rushing by, harnessing their horses, getting ready for the long way through taiga and in approximately an hour – just like Saharov promised – the column of two or so thousands men stretched, ready to advance into the blackness of unknown.

They took all the wounded with them; dead were left behind.

Sephiroth took a seat on the porch of the wooden village schoolhouse, numbly watching as last sleighs were moving out of Yesaulskiy. He couldn't leave Genesis behind.

He simply couldn't.

* * *

_June of 1916, Lutsk during the Brusilov Offensive._

Sephiroth lifted his head, deep sparkling emerald eyes shifting from the half crumbled buildings to the old castle that seemed intact. During their operation that ended in successful siege of Lutsk the city has been heavily lobbed with shells and many houses, schools tuned into helpless toppled husks with empty windows as blind eyes staring at the carnage and havoc.

The castle, the old shard of Lutsk's glorious past, survived. Here and there he could see signs of struggle but they were minor.

The castle reminded the Major General of himself. So many of his battle comrades died, taking Lutsk and he survived. It felt that fate kept him alive for something greater, however, what could be greater than dying for his Motherland?

Emerald eyes slid along the wall for the last time and the Major General in grayish-green overcoat was about to join the crowd of the marching soldiers when spotted a familiar frame on the opposite side of the road.

Could it really be Genesis?

His legs carried Sephiroth to his lover almost against his will. What was Genesis doing here? Why did he even decide to talk to his former lover, to a happy married man with his own family, reminding of a teenage passion that turned out to be not worth a rusty coin?

Genesis noticed him as well, making his way towards the silver-haired General.

The redhead changed, his face a shade paler than he remembered, and cerulean eyes, always so bright and sparkling, got a glassy look. That war left a visible mark on him. Perhaps, Sephiroth changed as well, only never realized how much.

Seeing Genesis stirred strong contradictory emotions, slight curiosity mixed with sadness, and the pain he thought was forever forgotten made itself felt.

"Sephiroth," Genesis smirked, nearing him. "I never thought I'd see you here, of all places…" the redhead's voice trailed off.

Silver eyebrows arched. He had to ask something. "What are you doing here?"

Genesis shrugged.

"Serving my motherland," the bitter irony in his former lover's smooth voice didn't escape Sephiroth's notice. "Just like yourself. I was transferred yesterday from the 11th army, to be exact."

Sephiroth looked at the redhead. Something definitely changed; Genesis wasn't happy. At all.

"What happened?" The deep voice was full of concern. He couldn't pretend he didn't care.

"My wife died. Miscarriage," Genesis replied quietly, lowering his gaze.

Sephiroth nodded, suddenly feeling overwhelming desire to press him to his chest and feel those lush – even if paler – lips between his own. In long silence they looked at each other. Genesis obviously wanted to say something, flames wanly rising in azure eyes, but his pride never let him. Sephiroth didn't know if any of the redhead's feelings survived; he only knew he would forgive.

Genesis just had to ask for it. He didn't.

So Sephiroth turned around and walked away, leaving the stone paved, turned upside down street with half destroyed buildings sliding away into the mist; he regretted his decision with every measured step that carried him away from his former lover yet stopped only when reached his headquarters.

Then Sephiroth thought it was finally over, but his fate had a strange, fickle taste, giving them one last chance.

* * *

_Fall of 1916, St. Petersburg. _

The pale shadow reflected in the dark window as a ghost, his uniform, his silver hair, his pale refined face being all white.

Major General Sephiroth stood motionless in his dark quarters, listlessly watching lone frames of people, walking down the street. He didn't want to turn the lights on, because his eyes were tired of vain holier-than-thou splendor.

Only mere hours ago he was a hero, a shining star of a ball, given in honor of the new heroes, surrounded by a crowd of flirting damsels and fellow officers chattering idly and unconstrainedly. They obviously felt at ease with each other, while he disliked those noisy medleys, yet letting none notice that his mind was far away from the ballroom.

Only hours ago Sephiroth was the rising sun, and now only a pale shadow remained, white as a ghost , painted on the black and silvery glass. Even though, after becoming officers, everyone received a noble title, Sephiroth never felt that he could completely fit in with their society.

Genesis was there as well yet they didn't even exchange short greetings. Their words were spoken a long time ago. Was there anything left to add?

Seeing Genesis still hurt, bringing back all those unwanted painful memories of summer, drowned in passion and fresh green grass, of long winter evenings spent in theatres or small cozy carriages, Genesis' lips hot even in the crispy frost.

Emerald eyes dimmed as Sephiroth released a shaky breath, making himself forget. It was not a good time to dwell on his past. In two days he would have to return to the battlefront. He wanted at least some peace.

Long fingers reached for the golden buttons, unhurriedly undid them; he took off his military jacket with high collar, now proudly decorated with the double-headed golden eagles and diamonds, and carefully hung it on the back of the chair. He received this Order for extremely successful performance during the Brusilov Offensive, especially taking Lutsk. After that the youngest Major General reached for his white silken shirt when suddenly someone knocked on his door impatiently, masterfully. Sephiroth involuntarily flinched; he wasn't expecting anyone. After Genesis' marriage he never got close to a single person; he had many brief acquaintances, yet couldn't call them friends, let alone lovers.

He couldn't have anyone after Genesis, not yet, and, perhaps, for a long time. His ability to trust was broken, and the war didn't help reviving it.

Slowly he strode to the door, placing his hand on the hilt of his sabre just in case, by a habit that was, maybe, carved into his core by now yet his precautions turned out to be unnecessary. When he opened the door and looked up, therein stood Genesis.

His heart sank, but pale refined face showed nothing.

"Genesis," his former lover's name escaped thin lips in a curt cold greeting. Emerald eyes met azure, and the redhead returned his gaze with usual audacity.

"Are you letting me in or would you have me stand here, explaining myself?"

He threw his auburn head a bit back, in that all-too-familiar haughty manner, exposing beautiful curve of refined neck.

Genesis was challenging him. He accepted, stepping aside and giving his former lover room to pass. The redhead glided inside his dark apartment, casually threw off his overcoat.

Sephiroth closed the door in awkward silence and stared at the redhead with expectation. So Genesis came back. What did he need from him? Wasn't it obvious that everything between them was over?

Wasn't Lutsk enough?

"You came back to tell me something. I am listening." The deep voice rang wearily; Sephiroth wanted to get over with the conversation as soon as possible.

He wanted some peace. Just a tiny bit. Was it too much to ask for?

Genesis leaned against the wall, crossing his legs and blurted out.

"Forgive me."

It stunned him. He wasn't ready to hear it, wasn't ready to forgive. Emerald eyes widened for a brief instant, watching just his former lover's face. Pale lips parted for an answer, but the Major General couldn't make himself say anything. 'Yes' wasn't an option and neither was 'no'.

"How long am I going to wait for an answer?" The melody in the redhead's voice shook, wounded pride overshadowing any other emotion. He was demanding an answer. Sephiroth instantly disliked it.

Genesis lost his right to demand anything.

"And what do you expect of me, Genesis?" Coldness seeping through every word, he calmly inquired. "To say – I forgave you, let's forget about everything and begin anew?" Sephiroth turned aside, hanging his head, hiding his face in waves of silver moiré.

"Yes." So resonantly, so haughtily, so boldly it rang, making pain rise up in his heart with renewed strength. He didn't forget anything and Genesis' beautiful voice was not an exception. "That would be the best answer."

Thin lips twitched.

"I… can't."

"Why?"

He didn't have to answer that, coming up to the window in stillness.

"Silent and cold again," the redhead dramatically continued. "Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think I married Katherine and just forgot?"

He was still watching the floor, pride and pain mingling into confusing cacophony of emotions. It was not easy to forgive treason.

"It was hard for me as well." He forced those dull words and lapsed into silence again. His pale slender shadow reflected in dark window again, as if being painted with silver and white gouache.

Genesis came to stand behind him closer than he should.

"I never loved her." His faint whisper was hot on his skin. "I just fulfilled my father's will. When she died… I felt free."

There was something cruel in that melodic voice, something harsh. Sephiroth recognized the imprint of war.

Long fingers bashfully settled on his shoulders, slender body moved closer. He didn't move, just strained inside as a stretched string, a cold alabaster statue.

"And I am having you back, whether you are going to resist me or not."

"How so?" How was his voice still so indifferent?

"Just like this," his melodic voice was turning into a purr and subtle fingers undid first button of white silken shirt.

Sephiroth didn't move. It felt like he couldn't breathe. Genesis hasn't touched him in more than two years and all those years he would often wake up wishing for his lover's embrace and getting nothing but cold empty darkness.

He was strong enough to deal with his solitude.

Yet he wasn't strong enough to deny Genesis. The redhead felt that. His touch became bolder, arms wrapping around his waist to get to the bottom buttons of white silken blouse.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you." Genesis breathed into his ear, tracing a line on his abdomen.

Sephiroth lost it then.

He hardly remembered how he and Genesis got rid of their full uniform, how their naked flushed bodies entwined, falling on his narrow bed, unwilling to break their embrace, their insatiable kiss. The redhead's skin burnt, the redhead's craving lips demanded, the redhead's hands caressed roughly. It was quick, ardent, and almost violent, like the war they just came back from, like the battle they were heading out for too soon. It seemed an evanescent breath of fresh air in a musty underground prison.

With a groan Genesis almost crumpled on his body, curling up, legs entwining with his. Soft lips gently slid along his cheekbone and between labored pants he heard a painfully straightforward "I am having nightmares, Sephiroth. Almost… all the time, seeing maimed bodies, burnt… bodies, bloodied bodies, tangled in… the barbed wire. You know how they are calling us? Lost Generation. The war isn't over and we are already… lost."

Sephiroth ran his fingers through soft auburn hair, each touch reminding him of what he didn't have all those long years.

"Is this why you came back?" He asked not truly wishing to hear the answer.

"No," Genesis' melodic voice rang with weary and at the same time warm notes, "I came back because I am in love with you. Always was."

* * *

_7th January, 1920; Yesaulskiy village._

Sephiroth took his palms away from his face, straightening. His story with Genesis wasn't an easy one, yet for all that he wouldn't want to change a thing.

The faint red rays fell on his pale face, giving his skin false color. He's been sitting outside for some time until suddenly someone's voice rang, breaking his contemplation.

"Batyushka," a peasant spoke to him with a genuine smile on hard face. They were still loved among the people. "It's turning cold. Come inside. My wife cooked dinner for you."

The Major General gratefully nodded, rising to his feet and following a cordial host.

He would wait.

He still had hope.


	3. Chapter III: Exodus, part I

_Summary: _Historical AU. Siberian Ice march. White Army is retreating, suffering great losses from Reds, frost and typhus. In the middle of nowhere, torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life.

_Disclaimer:_ I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings:_ Sephiroth/Genesis

_A/N:_ well, basically the tragedy of retreating army has just begun. So in next 3 chapters I'll try to describe it as best as I can.

_**Short list of names, etc:**_

_Batyushka_ – father. Reminding you just in case you forgot.

_Verst _– appr. 1 mile.

_Major General_ – in Russia a military post one rank lower then Lieutenant General. I've just realized it was a Russian thing only.

* * *

_**Chapter III.**_

_**Exodus.**_

_**Part I.**_

_Late 7th January, 1920; Yesaulskiy village. _

Sephiroth's steps faintly echoed in the small chapel; he walked slowly, barely lifting his feet. It wasn't just the overwhelming fatigue he felt but garments hindered his movements, layers and layers of cloth hung on his broad shoulders as an unwieldy burden.

The Major General went past the iconostasis without halting, opened the narrow wooden door in the whitewashed wall. He had to stoop in order to walk through it and into the smaller premises. This room looked barren, with a set of unpretentious dark furniture and a book shelf that stood out against the whiteness of the surrounding walls.

The priest rose at the sight of him and Sephiroth mechanically bowed his head to receive the usual blessing. He got used to pretending long ago.

"Did you come to a shrift, my son?" The senile voice tinkled.

The edges of thin lips involuntarily rose, taking a shape of a rueful smile. If he was confessing his sins instead of searching for solutions, he would be dead a long time ago.

"No… father," despite his thoughts, the deep voice rang with respect. "I need a map."

Suddenly the surroundings blurred and the silver-haired General had to blink to focus.

He was so tired.

The old priest hastily nodded and began going through the books and papers on his table.

"Just a moment, my son. It was somewhere here," the old man toppled an inkwell in a hurry. Heavy black droplets landed on the wooden floor.

Sephiroth stood motionless, dull emerald eyes vacant. Later he tried to remember the priest's face, but couldn't, the old man's features effaced from his memory.

Finally the priest found a crumbled piece of paper and extended it to the Major General. He thanked the old man and closed the door with a thud.

Sephiroth vaguely remembered the route Saharov showed him. It began in Yesaulskiy, continuing along the river to the confluent of Yenisey and Kan. He was doing it almost absent-mindedly, habitually. After all, nothing felt worse than helplessly sitting on the porch, awaiting his fate, yet for all that with each passing hour his forlorn hope to find Genesis was dimming.

Outside long quivering shadows fell onto the square. The early winter evening neared swiftly. Here and there Sephiroth saw children playing snowballs, pulling sledges, laded with firewood, their cheerful cries ringing between log houses and huts. Women were singing carols.

Watching them, Sephiroth was again seized by that feeling. There was a wall between them, a granite impenetrable barrier. He was not a part of their life, slowly sliding away into the mist of receding past, because his Russia was dying, its destiny, and its agony being his own.

"Batyushka! Batyushka!" He slowly turned at the sound of the young boy's voice. A panting child in a short sheepskin coat ran up to him, his eyes sparkling with sheer awe, cheeks rubicund from frost. "Our lot is nearing! The whole detachment!"

A bolt shot through his spine, fatigue vanished as if by magic. His steps still measured and controlled, Sephiroth hurried after the child. Soon he saw it on a dusky street, a thin chain of sleighs and outworn, hardly sticking on their steeds people, as it slowly crept into the village. The first person he recognized was a colonel with a hard face. Their eyes met, and the man detached from the column.

Heavy body nearly fell into his arms as the colonel dismounted and staggered.

"Are you the Major General? Thank God!" He exclaimed, clutching the reigns of his horse, thrusting the other hand upwards to halt the column.

"From now on I am in command, Colonel…" Silver eyebrows gracefully arched.

"Colonel Petrov," the man sighed with relief, swaying; Sephiroth had to support him under his arm. "God bless you, General. I thought we were not going to make it. The morale is low, men are tired, and we lost almost all ammunition. Damn, we are on the verge of losing last remains of self-control; some talked of surrender." The Major General frowned at those words. "If it wasn't for General Rhapsodos, who knows where we would now be."

So Genesis had to be alive. Emerald eyes closed for a brief moment; Sephiroth inhaled deeply, that being all signs of relief he allowed himself. Even though the anxiety to ask about Genesis' fate burnt him, the Major General showed none of it. He had to deal with the situation first.

"Dismount!" Sephiroth's voice rose and his men mechanically obeyed. The column was surrounded by villagers at once, and they began helping fugitive soldiers to unload the sleighs, lead the horses to stables, inviting them into the huts. The detachment was bigger than Sephiroth remembered, now numbering about a thousand men. All remains of the White Army, who survived the hell and were lost or scattered along the Yenisey banks, must have joined in. "Where are the Reds, Colonel?" Sephiroth turned his attention to Petrov again.

"Still looting our wagons."

It took him a moment to make a decision.

"We'll set out early in the morning." The deep voice rang with calm reassurance. The Major General noticed how the colonel relaxed, nodding.

"God is on our side. I was at a loss about what to do next. And his Honor Rhapsodos couldn't help me this time. He woke up just an hour ago."

"Where is he?" Sephiroth asked with a palpitating heart. The man waved his hand towards the sledges. The silver-haired General continued with a nod, letting himself touch the man's shoulder. Normally he wouldn't do it, yet the situation they all found themselves in was far from routine. "I appreciate your efforts. Now you go and rest. Leave everything to me."

Cerulean eyes wearily opened, illumining morbidly pale face when he gently whispered:

"Genesis…"

Long fingers in shapeless gloves circled the back of the sledge with force. His redheaded lover helplessly lay on the wooden bottom, wrapped in layers and layers of thick clothes and blankets. His breathing was a barely visible cloud of steam. A ghostly wry smile snaked bluish tinged plump lips as Genesis caught sight of him.

"It seems, my luck ran out, Sephiroth," despite the gravity of the situation, melodic voice was full of usual irony, as if the redhead was laughing at himself, at the whole world around him. Then Genesis coughed, wincing from pain. "One of the machine guns finally got at me. Silly fortuity. We almost made it…"

The Major General pressed his gloved finger to his lover's lips, regretting that he couldn't feel them.

"Don't speak. I'll get you inside."

His lover's body was light and frail in his arms.

"My shoulder," the redhead pitifully moaned as Sephiroth picked him up. "The bullet went through my right shoulder."

The silver-haired General carried him inside and put to bed in the ample front room near the heated stove. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman was dawdling by it with warm bread. She shot a glance at them, immediately straightening and putting her tray aside on the nearby table.

"Do you need anything, batyushka?" Her eyes were warm and sympathetic.

Sephiroth curtly nodded.

"Hot water, vodka and a knife."

"What are you going to do?" The redhead weakly croaked.

"Look at your wound," was his calm answer.

The peasant's wife hurried to get him what he needed. Meanwhile Sephiroth took his gloves and extra clothing off, leaned over his lover's body. Silver cascaded over his shoulders and he had to find a fillet to tie them.

"You never cut them," Genesis managed another wan smile. "Why?"

He shrugged, unwrapping blankets.

"I'll tell you later."

The short woman came back, bringing everything he needed.

"Anything else?"

The Major General shook his silver head.

"No, thank you," then froze for an instant. "Just close the door tightly and keep your children occupied."

Just as he suspected Genesis' wound wasn't bad, only it wasn't treated properly. A bloodied cloth was hastily put to his shoulder, now adhering to it tightly. He had to remove the soaked dark piece.

Cerulean eyes sparked with fear.

"I'd be fine," Genesis' hand weakly rose to stop him.

Silver eyebrows knitted into thin line. "You lost too much blood. And I need to clean the wound."

"I said I'd be fine," Genesis arrogantly interjected, tossing his head, spilling his auburn hair over the pillow.

Sephiroth poured some vodka into the glass.

"Unless you want your right hand ablated, you'll stay calm." The stern words passed his lips.

Genesis shuddered but didn't add a single replica. Shaking hand took the glass, brought to his lips and the redhead drunk it with few quick gulps. His finely wrought features winced.

"I always hated vodka; wine is a more delicate drink," melodic voice rang in familiar carefree manner, and then suddenly he couldn't contain genuine fear. Healthy palm clutched at his collar, bringing him closely. "Kiss me, Sephiroth. I'll do it myself."

He just poured hot water over the cloth, and then their lips joined. They tasted of vodka, so feverishly hot; the redhead's teeth sank into his lower lip, Sephiroth swallowing his lover's scream, hands clasping his slender body to the bedstead as Genesis finally tore off the bloodied cloth.

…The sleighs left Yesaulskiy at the break of dawn. A column of tired men slowly moved out, lone gray shadows in false dawn, and taiga hungrily swallowed the whole thousand as if it was a pitiful handful. None stayed at the village.

They had nothing to lose.

* * *

_8th January, 1920; north of Yesaulskiy village. _

At first Sephiroth planned to travel at least a half of a hundred versts, moving as fast as they could in a hope to overtake the main forces. Yet people and horses were so enervated that they could barely walk, even though he ordered to leave everything in Yesaulskiy besides the essential things like food, ammo and a couple of machine guns that had to be moved to the sledges. The Major General was forced to make a halt in the middle of taiga, understanding that if he pushed his men too far, half of them would not wake up on the next morning.

Sephiroth rode on his jet-black steed, looking over his shoulder once in a while, his uneasiness growing stronger and stronger with each hour. The Reds could catch up with them any minute. Men were demoralized by defeat at Krasnoyarsk and any kind of a battle engagement could turn out debilitating. They had to avoid the fight as long as possible yet it was only one of many problems.

They moved along the Yenisey riverbed since taiga around them was impassable. The thick walls as if carved from granite, surrounded the ill-assorted regiment, waking anguish, and oppressive silence only worsened the state of things. Sephiroth often felt himself as a lone survivor of a shipwreck, desperately clutching the wooden debris, a makeshift narrow raft. The bottomless deep roared, the wind howled, darkness thickened, and only one small raft was floating, quivering, crashing against the turbid waves, yet trying to withstand, guided by a frail man's hand. Where were they heading to? Why? For the only reason of not giving up and gaining a victory over the infuriated elements?

What victory could he think about after Krasnoyarsk?

The nature around them was untouched by men's presence, unmarred, majestic in its virginity. Enormous tall trees towered above the white corridor of Yenisey, their white crowns inflamed by faint rays of weak winter sun and dark shadows fell onto the road, fluttering in faint rustling wind. Sledge runners creaked, and those were the only sounds that disturbed that flawless stillness Sephiroth noticed upon entering the taiga for the first time.

From time to time the Major General would ride round his soldiers, peering into their red from the frost faces. Everyone was silent; none was cursing let alone joking or smiling. The Major General could almost picture them asking that same question he often asked himself. What would happen next?

Nothing hurt more than seeing their faces lighten up, at the sight of him approaching. Sephiroth brought them hope, false hope at best because just like them he had no idea what to do.

Watching Genesis wasn't helping at that. The redhead obviously felt worse even though yesterday he properly dressed the wound. Heavy blood loss and overwhelming weariness finally took their toll. His lover was unusually silent when he would stop by. Azure eyes would look at him and in their depths he would see the ghostly shade of doom, flickering as wan candle flames in the wind. Genesis felt he wasn't going to make it. The mere thought of it sickened Sephiroth. Then fingers would ruthlessly clench the bit, numb and unruly from frost but there was nothing he could do for Genesis, nothing at all.

Their horses began to stumble along around thirtieth verst or such was the General's impression from looking at the map; an hour or so later the first one stopped. No matter how hard they tried, the animal wouldn't move. Huge brown eyes looked at the Major General with reproach, its jaws listlessly moved when he offered a wisp of hay. The steed's pose reflected mortal fatigue, such unspeakable hopeless, unselfish and endless waste of strength that it seemed nearly human. The sleigh belonged to the only married couple that followed their detachment; the officer and his wife had to move to the next cart, dividing their belongings between several others. The woman faintly wept, watching her horse disappear in the glacial wasteland. When the column finally quivered, continuing its journey, the silver-haired General looked back over his shoulder. The steed wasn't standing any longer, its body helplessly sprawled on the snow, a dark dot on the unsullied white cover.

If was the first one; later the scene would occasionally repeat itself. Here and there the horse would stop, unable to move further, listlessly following the chain of moving sleighs with huge empty eyes, its will for life shattered. Taiga was lavishly covered with those lone dark corpses, frozen in ruthless white embrace.

Then Sephiroth absently asked himself what would happen when all the horses quitted ranks. Leaving anyone behind was out of the question, which meant he had to find replacements. Somehow. Even if it meant heavy requisitions.

The jet-black steed darted away, galloping towards the approaching guide. Sephiroth followed Saharov's example and found a local peasant eager to help. The vanguard reported that there was a small clearing half a verst ahead. The silver-hared General looked over his shoulder at his men, understanding they needed a rest, even though the day was far from over. The head of the column was tired most of all; its lot was the hardest, to carve a way in deep snow.

"Batyushka, the clearing on the bank is large enough; we haven't seen any in ten versts ahead." The silver head slowly bowed.

The Major General ordered a halt with a heavy heart. They've already lost too much time.

… Small fires instantly crackled, weak tongues flickering in deathly silence. Soldiers and officers hastily dismounted, feebly falling onto the ground in a jumble. Other shadows slowly moved as the strongest ones began feeding the horses, unloading food – which mostly consisted of frozen bread – and warm clothing. Tiny groups gathered around the fires and before lighting his Sephiroth made himself go around at least some of them, here and there he hearing scraps of quiet conversations. Some discussed previous battles, forever lost friends and comrades, but more and more often he would hear "Where are we heading to?" and a faint dispassionate response following "God only knows where."

Wearily wiping his forehead, Sephiroth collapsed onto Genesis' sleigh; even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to make a single move. Right now they were such an easy prey… Emerald eyes closed as utter indifference rolled in, drowning every other emotion as it often happened after such a strenuous struggle. Sephiroth stretched his hands to the fire, absently watching dark crimson depths, trying to catch and keep the evanescent warmth it gave. It felt like he was freezing inside.

Genesis reached for their hoarfrost covered knapsack, giving him two tankards. Sephiroth filled them with snow and placed on top of the fire, waiting until it boiled. Melted ice was their tea, and unfrozen bread – their frugal meal. Sensation of hot food in his mouth was a blessing. Sephiroth hungrily and quickly finished his supper, and then helped his lover. None noticed he was feeding Genesis; none cared.

They were beyond caring about anything.

After that Sephiroth took out a heavy coverlet, lay down by Genesis' side and spread it over their withering frames. The redhead returned his embrace, nestling up to his body in desperate attempt to keep all warmth inside. The brown rough coverlet shrouded the beautiful darkening sky, and in utter darkness their breaths mingled.

His eyelids slowly slid shut; he took the glove off and pale fingers slid along Genesis' forehead. It was damp and hot, auburn hair plastered to his lover's smooth skin. Only now Sephiroth noticed how Genesis' body was convulsing in quivering shivers; he had to have a high fever. The Major General pressed his friend's body tighter to his own. The redhead painfully moaned.

"I am sorry," he whispered into his lover's ear.

"It's… n-nothing," melodic voice rang in response. Then Genesis continued. "Do you remember when we went to see Tchaikovsky's 'Swan Lake' in Mariinsky theatre for the first time? It was winter of 1913. I don't know why, but it stuck into my memory so vividly. The crowd of carriages, the splendor, the dancing black swan… do you remember what I told you then?"

Sephiroth rummaged in his memory. Bright yet vague spots were listlessly resurfacing in his mind, ringing voices, sparkling diamonds on posh dresses, young girls flashing smiles at them and Genesis' lips pressed to his own, hungrily tasting every inch of thin curves.

"You said it was a game," he breathed out, "a game with your fate. A challenge."

"True," Sephiroth could have sworn his lover was smiling, the expression a shade of the one he remembered so well and loved so much. "But this time I feel I finally lost. I am not getting out of it."

"Giving up so easily?" The feigned cheerfulness rang hollow.

"No. I am not yet done fighting. I am done… hoping."

Genesis lingeringly coughed, each sound driving its sting into his ears. Sephiroth numbly lay until the redhead's labored breaths calmed down and auburn head went still on his shoulder.

Never ever in his life he felt more helpless.

* * *

_10th January, 1920; taiga. _

Sephiroth stirred, reluctantly opening his emerald eyes. It was still dark, no light penetrating his coverlet, indicating that another short winter day was just breaking.

The Major General threw the blankets back, stretched, trying to warm his numb muscles and going still again. Snow and rime was everywhere, covering the sledges, the runners, the horses' backs and coverlets. Faint sunrays merrily glistened and sparked, giving a false impression of life. Even his silver hair stuck together, crunching in his fingers as he tried to brush the shorter strands off his forehead.

The last two days merged into a monotonous chain of similar events. He couldn't recall anything specific, just the growing numbing anguish. They were moving too slowly. They were freezing.

Sephiroth finally stirred, raising himself on the elbow, and looked at the map he fell asleep with yesterday. It seemed that Podporozhnaya village, the nearest settlement, was within a day's march. There the detachment would at least find food and warmth. Emerald eyes slid along Genesis' pale face. His lover was still asleep and he didn't want to wake him up. With each day he grew weaker and weaker and Sephiroth began suspecting it wasn't due to the wound, the blood loss and fever.

Typhus. The relentless concomitant of retreating armies. Perhaps, soon their regiment would turn into a train of sick and maimed. The thought was surprisingly listless; it resurfaced and then sank back unto the blackness of oblivion.

Rising and clutching the sleigh's back to steady himself, he strode to the head of the column, passing by helplessly sprawled frames of soldiers. From time to time scouts nervously hailed the General and he calmly named himself. Approaching his guide, Sephiroth saw another scene. Officers were fastening three of four begs to the sleighs; he looked closely. Those appeared to be people, wrapped in layers of warm clothing, lifeless, sick people. There was nothing he could do to help. As a ghost he glided by, finally seeing the peasant he was looking for.

"I need you to move out ahead of us and prepare warm quarters for the detachment. We need hot food, beds and…" he faltered but for a brief moment, "provisions, hay, horses."

"You can count on me, batyushka."

Perhaps, this guide was the only sign of life in their regiment, he thought, watching the man hurriedly harnessing his tired horse.

… The detachment started moving in about an hour. The thin column stretched out along the riverbed, black walls arose on both sides as silent guardians of their glacial prisoners. Even if they wanted, the regiment wouldn't be able to make a single turn. They had to move forward, forward to the future unknown.

The Major General froze on his jet-black steed, watching the sleighs passing by, almost subconsciously counting them. After the last ones could be seen, he shot a short glance at their night post, noticing a shapeless hump on ice. Sephiroth jumped to the ground, gingerly approached it, tore down the coverlet and, despite all his restraint, all the ugliness he's seen before, recoiled, shuddering.

Corpses lay on ice, faces morbidly white and lips blue; hollow unblinking eyes stared directly at him. It looked like those people simply didn't wake up, freezing to death in ruthless embrace of winter.

Gently lowering the blanket, Sephiroth returned to his steed, resolutely mounted and urged it forward, catching up with the column. Genesis' faint question rang for nothing.

He didn't respond.

* * *

_11tth January, 1920; Podporozhnaya village. _

Warmth. It was almost painful to feel it slowly flood his body, abruptly flaring up inside; numb limbs began burning as if set on fire. Genesis bit his lower lip and moaned. His right shoulder hurt, pain, deadened by frost, awakening with renewed force and driving its sting into his shattered body.

Azure eyes listlessly opened, feverishly glistening in faint light. Genesis caught sight of his lover's silver-plated back at once, even though the surroundings were blurred. His lover sat at the table; over his broad shoulders Genesis noticed unfamiliar bearded faces, heard scraps of what seemed to be a heated argument. His lover's cold voice would repeat something about the river Kan, villages along the way and joining with the main forces of Kappel and Voitsehovskiy. The others would object, replicas of surrender weak and hesitant compared to the masterful notes in the Major General's deep voice.

Genesis lay on the wide bed, wrapped in warm woollen blankets. The redhead didn't know where he found himself. He couldn't recall the last days clearly, memories alternated between short hours he was awake and long black hollows of delirium.

Perhaps, he was just hallucinating again.

Finally Sephiroth's opinion prevailed over demoralized fear. After short orders involving acquiring new horses and provision, men rose, exchanging short handshakes and everyone beside his lover left the room.

"Sephrioth," a weak moan escaped his lips.

His silver-haired lover sat down at the bedside. Dark and weary emerald eyes looked at him as Sephiroth leaned against the headboard. Cold refined hand slid into his own hot one and so his lover continued to sit and look at him in utter silence until the redhead's eyelids slid shut and he saw…

* * *

_Winter of 1915, Tsarskoe Selo. _

"I am tired, Katherine," Genesis pushed his wife aside and gracefully strode to his burgundy colored armchair without even darting a second glance at the upset woman.

Their room was large, all luxurious furniture being of one deep burgundy hue – his bed, his chair, his worktable, drowned in scattered books, and the curtains. Even his robe was dark scarlet. His wife hated that color. He didn't care.

"You've been tired for the last two months," she continued, appearing before his sight in seductively unbuttoned transparent peignoir. "You aren't paying any attention to me."

How vain.

Genesis grabbed a book from the table and absently looked out of the window. It was dark outside. He noticed his father's carriage approaching the porch.

"I've been held up at work," he smoothly lied.

Her fingers settled on his knees as Katherine kneeled between them, her face so calm, almost unearthly gentle. The redhead felt sick; he somehow understood what she was going to say.

"Genesis," the soft whisper passed her lips as a rustle. He averted his eyes. Vainly. "Look at me. I am going to have a child. Our child."

He felt nothing, the emptiness more so cruel because it was his child she was talking about. His flesh. His blood…

Nothing. Void. Blackness.

Genesis couldn't suppress a shrug.

"Good to hear the blessed news," his voice was dispassionate.

"You've been cheating on me!" Katherine yelled, seeing his reaction, jumping to her feet, tears springing from her eyes. "I know… I feel that! You have another woman! How could you…"

It was one of her hysterics, which recurred more often lately.

He was always silent and cruel. More than that, Genesis was beginning to hate her, the feeling growing stronger and stronger each day.

Long fingers absently flipped the page of a book he's picked up. It was excellent poetry, young but already famous Gumilev fascinated the redhead with vividness of his beautiful imagery.

He hemmed, unwilling to divert his attention from the lines.

"No, I haven't."

Which was a shameless lie. The only two times they've been together he imagined Sephiroth in his arms; closing his eyes, he would pretend those were his former lover's lips he kissed, his former lover's body he caressed.

Those two times were a torture, the redhead somehow feeling disgusted after each one. Pretending to be with the only person he truly loved…

How pathetic. How petty, as Sephiroth would say. Sephiroth he so unjustly betrayed.

"I will complain to your batyushka!" Katherine's yells continued, getting on his nerves and he finally didn't hold out, interrupting another furious replica with a subtle movement of his hand.

"My father…" the angry flash in deep celestial blue eyes was hard to miss. His father. The traitor. "Go ahead. You can even complain to the Emperor himself. "

The cruel irony in his voice was even easier to notice.

She collapsed on their bed, burying her face in the pillow, her desperate sobs continuing.

How could he explain it all to his wife? That he didn't lover her, never would. That when he touched her he would see another person, feel the longing, the vain nostalgia for something he destroyed with his own hands? Suddenly he felt overwhelming desire to voice it all out just for the sole reason of reveling in satisfaction of seeing genuine terror in her eyes.

Katherine's huge tearful eyes…

Genesis found himself mercilessly thinking that they resembled those of a dying she-deer.

* * *

The redhead awoke with a jerk. Sephiroth fell asleep, sitting by his side, their hands still joined. Azure eyes burnt silently and his forehead was bathed in cold sweat.

What was it? Another hallucination, nightmare caused by typhus? Or truth he had somehow overlooked?

Genesis squeezed his lover's frail hand. He suddenly realized that it was him who killed Katherine. Inadvertently, unwittingly, but for all that cruelly.

Words reached deeper than any sword or poison ever would.

* * *

_13th January, 1920; river Kan. _

The name of river Kan tells nothing to those who has never seen it. It told nothing to Sephiroth before; he hurried to take the only way out he saw because in Podporozhaya he got to know that they've missed their main forces by mere day or so.

At first it seemed that luck was on their side, and faint glimmers of hope finally penetrated thick clouds of hopelessness.

At Podorozhnaya they were able to get new horses, warm clothes and food. Some had to be taken by requisition, but it was better than dying in taiga or falling into the hands of the Reds. The regiment began moving a bit faster.

Then frost unclenched its icy claws and at first it gladdened them, encouraged, gave hope. The Major General was not an exception until he realized what it really meant.

The head of the column was moving slowly, clearing the way for the rest of the sledges through heavy snowdrifts. It was dusk, the visibility terrible in thin mist. Even though he reminded to double the vigilance, the leading detachment didn't notice the thin layer of water or they did, but it was too late. The felt boots were soaked and on the first stop after that sleighs froze to the glacial river surface. The Major General heard curses; officers were trying to move their carts, yet all their efforts futile. In the end they had to abandon the sledge.

More people became sick, pneumonia and typhus, spotted and relapsing fever mowed his men down. More dead appeared with each day, since all of them, healthy and sick, slept together. Fear of death abated, numbing from frost and monotonous hardships of the journey. Even Sephiroth found it harder and harder to care about precautions. At first they tried to carry corpses with them yet too soon realizing that it was a vain waste. The Reds were on their tail.

Kan was a white glacial corridor, caged between the walls of spruces and larches of hitherto unseen width and height. Their crowns boldly challenged the clear crystalline welkin. The road of God was the name given to it by some of the most superstitious officers in the regiment.

The jet-black steed walked leisurely; Sephiroth felt its strength was kept on the razor-edge of the brink. He rode by Genesis' cart, although as of lately his lover wasn't speaking at all, most of the time tossing and turning in fever. Fathomless azure eyes were hollow and shone with a feverish glare each rare time he opened them. It seemed Genesis lost all track of what was going on. At times Sephiroth would hear his lover faintly moan his name, the entreaty in the melody of his voice making him go hot and cold all over.

Seeing Genesis fade away day by day and having no power to change it was killing him from the inside, draining of whatever last strength he had that pushed him forward.

Genesis was dying. His men were dying and he could do nothing but die with them. His officers and soldiers prayed. He didn't.

There was no God.

Sephiroth dropped the reigns. His long eyelashes trembled, concealing emerald flames, his haughtily straightened shoulders stooped, silvery veil freely cascading over them. He was falling asleep in his saddle; phantasmagorical otherworldly shadows of moving trees danced between half-closed eyelids. The Major General suddenly heard dog's bark. The silver head jerked, emerald eyes fluttering open. Could it be that somewhere ahead of them the village was situated and their two days' march came to an end? Sephiroth peered through approaching darkness, straining his ears.

Nothing. Just God's white endless road. Just another lone frame of abandoned horse.

And moaning Genesis by his side.


	4. Chapter IV: Exodus, part II

_Summary:_ Historical AU. Siberian Ice march. White Army is retreating, suffering great losses from Reds, frost and typhus. In the middle of nowhere, torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life.

_Disclaimer:_ I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

_Pairings:_ Sephiroth/Genesis

_A/N:_ Ok, I know, Hollander is totally non canon here :) but it was too much of a temptation…

_**Short list of names, etc:**_

_Bozhe Milostiviy!_ – God Almighty!

_Gorlitskiy Offensive_ – 2-15th may, 1915. Successful German advance during WW1, attempted to neutralize Russian forces. German army had a fourfold advantage in artillery, machine guns and mortars and more than twofold in forces.

_Burning Petersburg_ – Sephiroth refers to Bolshevik October Revolution of 1917.

_Izba _– Russian hut.

* * *

_**Chapter IV.**_

_**Exodus.**_

_**Part II.**_

_15th January, 1920; river Kan. _

The deafening thunder roar loudly echoed in Sephiroth's ears, preventing him from falling asleep. The Major General was tired, both physically and emotionally shattered, yet his body couldn't find desired rest. Memories as short painful flashes broke out in his mind and from time to time it seemed he was back in the trenches, squirming and fighting simple human fear each time a shell exploded, drowning in relief each time it exploded in the trench ahead or behind.

For thirteen hours German preliminary bombardment lasted, followed by a crushing advance, and yet they held, without any help, against the enemy with fourfold advantage, held as if that piece of land was the last standing ground for their troops. He was able to save his men then; the detachment retreated to Peremyshl in perfect order.

How was this situation any different? Why wasn't he able to find a way out this time?

It was pitch dark, and crimson embers of his fire were sizzling, giving away last residue of warmth. Sephiroth sat on the sleigh, stooping. Occasionally a scout slipped by; then the Major General lifted his head, staring into the void between them, trying to silence stubborn desultory memories.

Then he strained his ears, trying to understand whether Genesis was still breathing.

Sephiroth knew he couldn't sleep for one more reason. It was fear, unknown before, the one he seemed to have little power over, fear of waking up next to the numb frozen corpse of his beloved.

The Major General buried his face in his palms. He wanted it to end, this way or any other.

He couldn't take the uncertainty any longer.

* * *

_16th January, 1920; Barga village. _

The thin slightly depleted column slowly pulled into the small village. What was a regiment just a week ago now resembled the train of sick and half-dead. It was only due to the bitter frost that typhus hasn't killed most of its victims, yet how could those weak ill people fight? And yet they still went forward, stubbornly finding their way in the snow covered taiga, driven by something that couldn't be just called heroism or unearthly strength. They still fought, leaving their dead friends and loved ones behind for sole hope of finding a different, better future.

Those were last strongholds of the Russian Idea, Idea that was greater than life and happiness of a single person.

Sephiroth dismounted, swaying, clutching the saddle so that he would not fall. He was on the brink, understanding that he did all he could, perhaps, even more than anyone would do in his place, yet it turned out to be not enough.

They were awaited. Siberian peasants, villagers, they sympathized with them as one would do with strong people who were not willing to give up, all circumstances that didn't favour them notwithstanding, yet that sympathy had nothing to do with the cause of the White movement. Could he blame them?

Men and women helped his soldiers to unload carts, carry the wounded and sick into the heated huts and prepare food. Sephiroth didn't look at them; it was a routine sight. Despite the offered help, he picked up Genesis on his own. The redhead didn't even stir, refined face morbidly pale, sunken eyes closed, dark bags visible on smooth skin, cheeks hollow in faint reddish light of approaching evening. So frail, so light… A gust of wind, faint as nature's whisper, disheveled tangled auburn hair, the last remnants of the person he knew so well.

Emerald eyes vacantly stared at the redhead's face. His steps were slow, forced, as if a puppeteer was pulling the strings and the Major General absently obeyed. One, then another… then the world blurred, the ground gave a lurch, and, perhaps, he would have finally fallen, if someone didn't support him under his arm.

Sephiroth was about to thank the stranger and continue onward but halted, seeing the face of a middle-aged man, framed in grey hair. It was not a face of a peasant.

The stranger immediately took advantage and introduced himself.

"Doctor Hollander," his face turned grave and serious, as he caught sight of Genesis' body in his arms. "Typhus? Fever?" Questions followed, professionally calm, confident. "Get inside. I'll take a look at him."

Sephiroth listlessly nodded and followed the doctor. After last night when he couldn't sleep he had no strength at all.

The heated izba turned out to be quite large. Laying Genesis' body in one room the Major General followed Hollander's advice and hospitality and rested in the next. The moment his body sprawled on the bed he dropped into dreamless slumber.

… When Sephiroth opened his eyes it was already dark. The dog was barking at the top of its voice, the sound of it waking him up. The Major General rose at once, threw off all extra clothing, instantly feeling some relief. Icy cold water he drank cleared his head a bit. Leaning against the wall in the corridor, he waited until the door to Genesis' room opened and Hollander appeared with a bloodied piece of cloth. They exchanged tired glances.

"How is Genesis?" Anxiety showing in his every gesture, Sephiroth hastily inquired.

"You must be Major General Sephiroth," the doctor had an astute mind. Sephiroth nodded and pushed the wall aside, silent question thrashing about the cage of his irises. "Let's have a drink." Hollander coughed, a glint appearing in his grey eyes. "It is always a pleasure to meet an educated person, especially in an out-of-the-way hole like this."

Sephiroth has just noticed that the man had an accent, characteristically pronouncing the letter 'r'. He wasn't Russian.

The doctor guided him to the small cozy kitchen with the stove. Therein he offered a chair, took a seat by his side, poured two glasses of vodka, extending him one and taking a gulp from another. Sephiroth reclined on the wooden back, wearily closed his eyes, fingers absently circling the glass. He didn't want to drink; he needed a clear head.

"I am going to be honest with you," the doctor began, although Sephiroth asked nothing yet. "Genesis is going to die if he continues to travel in the frost. If it was just the wound or just typhus… with both of those he'd die in a day, maybe, two."

Sephiroth merely nodded, showing he heard those words. He couldn't give an answer; he didn't know it. He would have to think.

"I appreciate what you've done for him, doctor." Thin lips barely opened to speak. The rough wooden back of a chair seemed to be the only one anchor in the world.

"Are you friends? Battle comrades?" Hollander inquired with genuine curiosity.

Sephiroth absent-mindedly looked through the glass, toying with it in his long fingers.

"Indeed." His response rang curtly, coldly, dark flames in emerald eyes flickering between silver tresses that concealed his tired face. It hurt talking about Genesis. He didn't want to talk about him.

Hollander didn't notice.

"How long have you two known each other?"

"Long enough…" It was impossible to explain as it was impossible to tell the tale of the exploding shells, burning Petersburg, train, speeding away into the endless night in just a couple of meaningless words. Their fates were too tightly intertwined. He didn't want to give any explanations. Warmth was slowly spreading in his body, supplanting the habitual numbness and thoughts were listless as though he was observing someone else having them. He could barely stay awake. He was way too tired. He needed more than an hour of rest. "How did someone like you end up in such a godforsaken place?" The Major General asked thereupon, feeling no curiosity, only desire to divert the subject from Genesis.

"I am a prisoner of war," the doctor hemmed, "originally from Vienna; was a military surgeon, captured in 1916 during the Brusilov Offensive. Deported to Siberia." He raised the glass, taking another long sip. "I am honored to meet face to face with the famous hero of that battle. You were a legend among our troops, of sorts."

An honor… legend… those names rang too vaingloriously. He did what he had to do to protect his motherland, to fulfill his duty. He didn't do it for glory, for praise and to hear it now was somehow unpleasant, offensive even. Success is never blamed; if Germany won he wouldn't be a legend or a hero. He would end up as an outcast, his name remembered by a handful of survivors and only during their life span. Then manipulation with history would have finished the rest. After all, who actually needed the truth? Who would sit and read through dozens of dusty tomes to find it? It was a laughable notion. People rarely wanted truth. It was too much work.

There was only one difference, but it was deeply personal.

Sephiroth in turn raised the glass and slowly sipped from it. The drink was bitter, its usual strong taste mixed with some herbs. He didn't have much, resolutely putting the glass aside.

"Home made, special," Hollander grinned, explaining, his eyes glinting with pride.

"I appreciate everything, doctor," Sephiroth found himself repeating, "but I want to check on Genesis."

"Understandable. If you need anything, feel free to ask."

He pushed the chair aside and strode to the room. The door closed tightly behind him with a dull thud.

Genesis lay motionless, eyes closed; his skin changed color to unhealthy red. His chest was slowly rising and falling, breaths faint and labored. From time to time he raved, something about breaching through enemy's barbed wire, about attacking Austro-Hungarian flanks. His name passed his lover's lips, a white-hot rod driven through his heart; the Major General drew forward, closer to Genesis, fingers passing over his burning forehead, untangling plastered hair.

"Genesis," the redhead mumbled something incoherent. "Genesis," he repeated louder. Cerulean eyes finally opened, slowly focusing on his face.

"It's so warm," he heard feeble, shaken. "Get the corpses off the barbed wire."

Sephiroth took his lover's hand, fingers gently intertwining together, one by one.

"Genesis, the Great War is over." Thin lips softly whispered, lingering on the damp forehead.

"Sephiroth?" Recognition dawned in celestial blue depths. "Help me bury the bodies."

Genesis was delirious. He didn't understand where he was or what was going on. All words were stuck in Sephiroth's throat and he had to force them, hollow empty sounds.

"I've already buried them. Don't worry."

The redhead immediately relaxed. His face got such an unearthly calm expression like he's never seen since they went to that war.

"Thank you."

Genesis' body shuddered as he coughed, then azure eyes closed again. Faint breath was barely heard in leaden stillness.

Sephiroth sat down on his lover's bed.

"What should I do, Genesis?" He asked the emptiness in front of himself, knowing that the redhead wouldn't hear him. The surroundings blurred and swayed again. He had to lie down.

He will have to stay at the village and give battle to the Reds, or continue the journey that will kill Genesis. He had to save one or to save a thousand. He was at an impasse.

The Major General dropped his silver head on his chest. Emerald eyes were heavy. Thoughts were whirling in his mind, losing clearness and soon Sephiroth sank into uneasy slumber.

The question, the hardest question in his life, was still left unanswered.

* * *

_Early 17th January, 1920; Barga village. _

"Reds! Reds are coming!"

Cries echoed through his befogged head, distant and surreal, as if they belonged in his dream. Reds? What Reds?

Sephiroth moaned, unwilling to wake up; it wasn't morning yet, he felt that and Genesis was near, when his head somehow ended up on his lover's chest, silver spilled all over as thin meandering streamlets.

It was warm and almost too much after nearly three days of continuous march through the icy wasteland.

He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to move…

Reds!

Finally, the true meaning of the word registered in his mind. Sephiroth rose with a jerk, immediately reaching out for the revolver with his hand, which was always loaded, always waiting by his side.

Glancing at the sleeping redhead, he darted out of the room, nearly running into one of his soldiers.

"Your Excellency!" Fear, so much hidden fear. "The Reds are approaching, just the vanguard yet. What are your orders?"

"Prepare and load the machine guns," the Major General croaked, clearing his throat. Fingers clenched the revolver he was holding with force. "And assemble all men who can still fight."

The soldier nodded, disappearing; he followed, running out into the street where in utter darkness men were hurriedly gathering, lining up in front of the hut with rifles. Their faces were haggard, uncertainty and fright showing in every gesture and glance. They were afraid to die. They were ready to die.

The dog was barking, nearly chocking with yelping.

The colors of long winter night were still deep, its power over the sleeping settlement insurmountable and visibility was horrible. What were the Reds thinking attacking them like that? Or, perhaps, the Bolsheviks didn't even know about their existence; they could be still looking for main forces and quarters to spend the night at. The Major General surveyed the sight in front of him, his keen eyes noticing what others might have not. The low wooden huts stood, snuggled up together as if trying to seek what little warmth they could. Somewhere behind soldiers were pushing out a couple of sleighs with machine guns attached to them.

They will fight.

Sephiroth approached one of the soldiers and gave him short orders to break up into small units and take their positions between the huts along the road the Reds would be coming from. When the crowd started dispersing he went to the barn, grabbed a rifle with cartridges, once again realizing how few they had. Next time they could be fighting the armed Reds with sabres or bare hands, the mere thought of it sending shivers down his spine.

Because they will fight. Even with bare hands.

The flow of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of firing rifles. So it began.

His steps abrupt Sephiroth ran out into the street to see two soldiers carrying a wounded moaning dragoon. The village was waking as well, lights sparkling in opening doorways.

They will not hold for long. Repelling the vanguard's attack was all they could hope for then the regiment will have to flee.

Making himself forget about the ongoing battle, the silver-haired General ran up the porch of Hollander's hut, dashed inside, halting in his lover's room.

Becoming the General he stopped belonging to himself; he belonged to his men, to his country. His place was at the head of the column. One question remained – where was Genesis', since his lover was obviously in no position to decide?

The redhead didn't come around even as he tried to call out for him. He was too weak, too sick to continue the journey. Putting the rifle aside, Sephiroth kneeled by his lover's bedside. A revolver was in his left hand as he resolutely brought it to Genesis' temple. One shot and it would be over – the torment, the exodus, the pain. Long fingers clutched his lover's auburn hair, throat contracted, unexpected unwanted tears welled up in emerald eyes.

He couldn't look at Genesis, averting his face, clutching the truculent metal with resolve.

Sephiroth could imagine it all with ruthless clarity. Scarlet blood on the pillow; Genesis' helpless body shuddering in last convulses, disarrayed, broken, cerulean eyes glassy and blind.

He had to pull the trigger. It would be more merciful than letting him fall into the hands of the Reds, more merciful than dragging him along.

He had to kill Genesis.

He couldn't do it.

He loved him too much. He…

His heart was painfully throbbing, trying to break free from his chest. He couldn't shoot his helpless lover, it was beyond him. Moments passed, and his revolver was still pressed to Genesis' head, held with shaking left hand. Silent tears Sephiroth didn't feel were streaming down his usually cold refined face.

It was called a Russian roulette, a game with life and death. It was a poor excuse for his inability to decide. Trembling fingers finally moved, opening the cylinder, removing all bullets but last one then closing and abruptly revolving it.

Sephiroth shut his eyes tightly, his heart was wrung with fear, he couldn't breath, finally pulling the trigger, writhing in anticipation of a ruthless loud bang. Blank snap loudly echoed in his ears; he flinched, revolver falling out of his hand and landing on the wooden floor. Emerald eyes warily opened. Genesis tossed in uneasy slumber, moaning his name.

He sagged, slumping against the bed, silver head helplessly thrown back, and cold sweat streaming down his forehead. Emerald eyes were wide with agony.

Genesis' fate was finally not his to decide…

How much time did he lie like that, breathing heavily, his head numb and blank? Staccato machine gun bursts helped the Major General to recover himself. His place was on battlefield, whether it was Krasnoyarsk or a small village in the middle of nowhere. His place was with his men.

Staggering and leaning on his rifle, Sephiroth strode to the front door. Strong contradictory emotions drained him of all remaining strength. He could barely walk.

One thought pushed him forward. His place was on the battlefield.

By the time white ghostly frame with scattered silver hair appeared in the doorway the battle was almost over. A couple of mounted Reds were trapped on the road between his riflemen and machine guns. It looked like they wanted to surrender, yet Sephiroth couldn't think clearly. He walked towards them, blindly, raising his rifle, pulling the trigger, once, twice, reloading it mechanically, taking another step, and firing, firing, firing until all bodies were on the ground, scarlet pools spreading underneath each one.

It took him less than thirty seconds to finish them off. None recovered fast enough to stop the Major General.

"Take their horses and tackle up! We're leaving!" His soldiers recoiled from him.

There was nothing human in his voice, in his eyes.

He nearly killed his lover in cold blood.

… They were ready to leave. The sleighs stretched as thin thread on the unsullied white road. First snowflakes circled in the air, foreshadowing another long blizzard and yet Sephiroth stood motionless in Genesis' room, his hand joined with his lover's.

Finally, the silver head bowed, lips brushed against lips, clinging onto them in one last nearly chaste kiss. Then, his strides jerky, without casting another glance at the redhead, Sephiroth walked out of the room. Hollander waited for him.

After rummaging in the pocket of his overcoat, the Major General extended a package to him.

"Take it. And make sure Genesis makes it alive and free. If it becomes impossible," his voice was hollow, "kill him."

Hollander's exclamation "Bozhe Milostiviy, Your Honor!" fell on deaf ears.

When Sephiroth disappeared from his view, the doctor unwrapped the bundle. There, on his palm, lay an Order, four golden two-headed eagles sprinkled with diamonds.

An Order of Alexander Nevskiy.

Meanwhile, in the court, the Major General mounted and ordered the column to move. It quivered, sleighs crawling along the road.

The jet-black steed neighed, almost screamed as a human being, when Sephiroth dug his heels into its sides, prancing and darting off as insane, taking its place at the head of the column.

It felt as though he knew Sephiroth has seen Genesis for the last time in his life.

* * *

_20th January, 1920; Siberian high road. _

Sephiroth walked slowly, as if in a fog, lifting his feet with visible effort; his felt boots were so exposed to frost that the weight hindered each movement. Legs refused to move, yet the Major General had to walk, otherwise he would freeze in his saddle or the horse would fall.

Stubbornly bending his head, he walked and walked, staggering, falling and then getting up, clutching the reigns even more firmly with each time. Snow was on his lips, on his shoulders and perhaps to a chance observer – should there be someone so insane to leave the house in a blizzard like that – he would look like a moving hump of snow.

The storm gained strength with each passing hour; snowdrifts seemed bottomless and snowflakes whirled, shrouding the surroundings in thick veil. The nights seemed endless and days just short flickering flares of light. They should have already exited the glacial corridor of river Kan. Sephiroth couldn't see whether they did.

There remained a whole day's march till the next human dwelling. The Major General was surprised with his own indifference. Day more, day less, more dead, less dead…Just those monotonous steps mattered, one following another, almost on the verge of breaking and falling without any strength to get up.

Just like those soldiers. Sephiroth turned his head, listlessly following blurred silhouettes, sitting on the snow, their eyes void, dead, albeit people still breathed.

At first he used to call out for them, encourage getting up and moving forward, only to receive a hopeless whisper "We have no strength to walk, your Honor". Now he had no morale strength to do so. Sephiroth simply went by those frames, until the snowfall buried them underneath, turning into small white humps.

He was walking by an empty sledge. Genesis used to lie there, now it was loaded with warm clothes and provision.

Did his lover survive? Did he fall into the hands of their common enemy?

Leaving a comrade behind was something like treason; most likely the redhead would have wanted to stay with him till the end. He would have respected such decision. Will Genesis understand him? Will Genesis ever forgive him now?

As of lately, it no longer mattered.

Sephiroth shook his silver head, absently watching white endless linen under his feet as blizzard swiftly covered his and his stallion's tracks, as if they never existed.

It was just this pointless march, one verst after another, to the end none had the power to predict.

Colonel Petrov came abreast with him. He walked on foot as well, saving his steed's strength.

They exchanged weary glances. The Major General didn't need to explain anything to his fellow officer.

Despite the sacrifices they made, despite the strength wasted and blood spilled, they wouldn't make it.

Sephiroth hung his head; glistening silver froze to his skin, no longer shrouding his face.

He had only one desire. If he was to die, he didn't wish to die alone, only even something like this was too much of a luxury.

After all, what was a tragedy of one man compared to the tragedy of a whole country, writhing in cramps, drowning in blood, dying in a snow covered wasteland; of a whole country on the verge of a new epoch, when they would have to become past and Bolsheviks take their place?

His personal tragedy was nothing.

Nothing.

* * *

_Fall of 1916; Saint Petersburg. _

Genesis wrapped a thin white sheet around his waist and leaned against the doorway, watching Sephiroth as he lay in bed, reading a book. Molten silver cascaded over his bare shoulders. Features as if carved from marble, from thin lips to high cheekbones, from finely moulded chin to graceful arches of silver eyebrows, radiated pride and willpower.

Gods, the redhead missed him, the only anchor in the madness of war. Katherine never understood him, never could; she never saw a war for what it really was. He dismissed those thoughts. His wife was dead.

Genesis stretched with pleasure, strolling to their shared bed.

Although he came back only a day ago, it felt like those two years' hollow never happened.

Long fingers resolutely took the book out of his lover's hands. The question Sephiroth was about to ask sank in a deep passionate kiss.

The sensation of thin lips slowly parting brought overwhelming relief.

He didn't have to pretend any longer.

Genesis closed his eyes, drawing forward, lowering himself on the sheets, twining around strong body. Pale smooth skin was warm, his lover's steady heartbeat a bewitching rhythm of life.

Suddenly cerulean eyes opened, catching sight of his lover's white military jacket with high collar, which hung on the back of the chair since yesterday.

"Is this your new Order?" He absently asked, looking into emerald depths, passing his fingers over the golden eagles.

"It is more." Sephiroth's eyes became distant, otherworldly even. "To me it is the symbol of living Russia."

* * *

_20th January, 1920; Barga village. _

Four double headed eagles, a portrait of a man on the prancing horse in the middle, decorated with clear faceted diamonds.

Genesis lay, dumbstruck, looking at his lover's Order in Hollander's hands.

The redhead woke up an hour or so ago, for the first time in weeks feeling refreshed, his head clear and light. His body was still weak, yet the temperature came to nought, even the wound more or less healed. Youth and warmth finally overcame the disease. His first conscious question was "Where is Sephiroth?" and when he received an answer that his lover had left and later saw his Order in the doctor's hands the redhead understood something horrible had happened or was about to happen.

Throwing woollen blankets off with an unsteady hand, Genesis straightened. Loading his revolver and putting his clothes on was a matter of minutes. The doctor's replicas rang for nothing.

He understood nothing.

Genesis was about to head for the exit when Hollander resolutely stood in his way, his slightly obese frame blocking the door.

"You are not going anywhere, your Honor. It's too dangerous with the frost and Reds."

"You don't understand anything!" The redhead snapped. "He would have never parted with this Order."

Hollander's eyes were stern.

"In your condition you won't survive."

"And why do you even care?" His voice was dripping with venom.

"He asked me to. And I am going to keep my promise." Hollander replied simply.

Genesis couldn't take it any longer, ire kindling, overpowering him in mere instants. Sephiroth was dying in the wasteland and this… this doctor wouldn't let him help.

Certainly, he didn't ask himself how he could help.

"Get out of my way!"

He seemed furious, although more desperate than truly angry.

"I rarely meet good people, Major General Rhapsodos." Hollander's voice was still calm as if he was talking to a stubborn child. "Your friend was among those I could admire. He knew what he was doing."

His friend! What did this good doctor understand about who Sephiroth was for him, making such pathetic erroneous assumptions. If he truly knew… his hand resolutely reached for the door knob.

"What do you know of him?! He would have never left me behind if he didn't know he was going to die!"

Hollander tried to explain him something. The redhead wasn't listening.

Cold prickly snowflakes burnt his skin when he dashed out of the izba. Not paying any attention to how he wobbled, Genesis hastily walked to the barn. He had just two thoughts – to get a horse and follow Sephiroth.

He didn't deign asking himself whether it was possible or not. In condition like his people rarely ask themselves anything.

Hollander caught up with him in the stable when the redhead began harnessing the first horse he saw.

"Look at yourself, Genesis! You are in no condition to travel. You wouldn't make even a dozen of versts." Was he imploring?

Genesis arrogantly tossed his head, clutching the saddle to steady himself. How could he be too weak now?

"He is going to die!"

"Sooner or later we all die, Major General," the doctor shook his grey head with genuine sympathetic sadness. "The only question is how."

The floor abruptly swayed, weakness flooded his body; the redhead hasn't yet recovered from typhus and blood loss, and the emotional outburst took his last strength.

Those were the last words he had heard before the world went black.


	5. Chapter V: Children of war

Summary: Historical AU. Siberian Ice march. White Army is retreating, suffering great losses from Reds, frost and typhus. In the middle of nowhere, torn between duty and love, Major General Sephiroth has to make the hardest decision in his life.

Disclaimer: I own nothing or no one. Why would I need to, anyways?

Pairings: Sephiroth/Genesis.

A/N: Pearlwhite, thank you very much for your review – since I am incapable of saying this any other way :) I am indeed very much interested in this period of Russian history; even though it is truly tragic, it is a great encouragement for me. And Sephiroth in the role of the General is always a sheer pleasure to write.

_**Short list of names, etc:**_

_Average temperature during the Ice March_ – around -35 Celsius; -31 Fahrenheit.

_The Vichy regime_ – French government (1940-1944), loyal to Hitler, established after the defeat of France in WW2.

* * *

_**Chapter V.**_

_**Children of war.**_

_25th January, 1920; temporary Kappel's headquarters._

"Major General! Major General Sephiroth!"

His left hand moved, rising to his forehead, passing over warm skin, brushing slightly damp hair aside. He could move, and the rigidity was almost gone, replaced by placid limpness. He could feel his face, the way his skin prickled each time he touched it, the way his lips hurt and bled when he tried to open his mouth for an answer.

Bliss.

He felt alive.

Emerald eyes were closed; Sephiroth didn't wish to open them, as though afraid that it was again a trickery of his weary mind.

Did they finally make it? The Major General strained his memory. The last thing he could recall was his jet-black steed neighing loudly and two or three other horses responding. At first he thought it was a sound delusion he's been experiencing more and more often lately, but then people began appearing before his eyes, shouting something, running towards the column. At that moment he understood that his regiment – or whatever was left of it – overtook the main forces. Then the silver-haired General let himself slip out of the saddle; the surroundings blackened, and he didn't even feel the pain of falling.

Sephiroth faintly moaned. Soft pillow underneath his head, layers of woollen blankets he was wrapped in, and overwhelming weakness together with strange weightlessness created an illusion of paradise.

They were caught in a storm, trying to get to another village, but when they got there, straining their last strength, hoping for some warmth, there was nothing but a white wasteland in its place, the remains of burnt houses barely visible, yielding to omnipotent power of blizzard. It appeared that the Reds got there first and destroyed the whole settlement.

Of what happened after only series of short outbreaks in his memory remained. He recalled freezing alive, how he stopped feeling his legs, then arms, then…

"Thank God, he's alive." The same voice, which said those first words, repeated.

Sephiroth barely opened his eyes to see who was speaking, when waves of darkness rolled in once more and he couldn't see or hear anything.

…When he awoke for the second time it was dark. A single candle was lit, its flames flickering in faint draft, shadows moving on the walls in an otherworldly dance. The izba was small, and to his left the Major General could see the dark contours of another bed. A wooden chair and a stove supplemented the impression of sheer poverty.

Outside the wind was rustling in crones of pristine trees and between its whispers he heard faint moans.

Sephiroth raised himself on the elbow; diverting his eyes to the bed, he noticed a withered frame on it. The person was obviously sick; laboured hoarse breaths pointed to pneumonia.

The Major General flinched, shrinking underneath the blankets. He felt slightly shivery, but it wasn't bad. The person to his left mumbled something incoherent. Sephiroth recognized Kappel's voice. So he caught up with the main forces indeed; this news was consoling.

The news about sick Commander in Chief weren't.

It seemed he could not receive good news any longer.

Reclining his silver head on the headboard, Sephiroth closed his eyes and coughed. Kappel immediately stirred, waking.

"Who is there?" The weak voice croaked, so unlike calm masterful orders he always issued. Sephiroth named himself. "Ah, Major General. I was informed of your arrival. How was your journey?"

"Frost. Typhus." Sephiroth's answer was curt.

Kappel hawked blood, wiping his mouth with his hand. In wan light Sephiroth saw the dark spot on the Generals' palm.

"Same for us. The railroad is still occupied by Czechs. The telegram we received form Saharov reaffirmed the news we had. You will have to continue, to cross Baikal and join with Semenov."

"Not many will make it." Sephiroth absently looked up. He understood what the General meant.

"Those who wanted to leave have already left, Major General," Kappel's voice regained former strength, even if just for a moment. Then he slumped back, wearily reclining on pillows. "Yesterday I appointed Voitsehovskiy as a new Commander in Chief."

The Major General nodded.

"Are you planning to take Irkutsk and free the Supreme Ruler?"

"That is the best we could hope for. Bolsheviks do not expect us to act. This time we have advantage of surprise." For a moment Kappel lay still, and then asked, abruptly changing the topic. "Where is Rhapsodos?"

"I…" those words were not easy to say. "He was sick and I left him behind."

"We all have to make hard decisions, Sephiroth," Kappel quietly replied from darkness. "Leaving my family was not easy either."

Candle flames flickered, shadows wildly quivering on the walls. Sephiroth vacantly followed them with his eyes; their quiet conversation seemed surreal as did hearing a human voice.

"I often thought why we lost, Kappel. We were not harsh enough. We didn't understand that the Civil war is not the same the Great War was. And we rarely learned fast enough."

He looked out of the window to see a lone silhouette of a sentry slip by. Where were they? How far from Irkutsk?

"It is easy to judge now. We were dealing with a seriously ill patient and instead of trying to find a remedy we cared about the colors of its dress. We tried to stop the revolution, instead of just giving it a desirable direction. It is too late to learn and change anything now." Kappel coughed again, cursing under his breath. At first the Major General thought of asking about his disease but changed his mind, not wanting to offend his fellow officer. Sephiroth understood that Commander in Chief was dying, only as a strong person he never said a single word about his state, never even complained a bit. His last thoughts, his last words were about their common goal, about his motherland. "I know, looking back, we now know there were many things that should have been done differently. But, disregarding that fact… do you regret anything, Major General?"

That wasn't a question at all. Thin lips whispered "no", taking a shape of a bitter smile. It was too late to change anything, yet he truly regretted nothing.

Sephiroth looked at the General's emaciated yet still volitional face, straight into feverishly glistening eyes that reminded him of dying Genesis, having heard a faint, almost dead. "Me neither."

Those were the last coherent words he heard from Kappel.

… In less than a day Commander in Chief of the Eastern front, the hero, the patriot, the person who started it all for him and Genesis, died. His coffin was brought out into the court in front of the izba where he spent his last hours at so that all soldiers could say their last farewell to the true son of Russia.

Snow faintly creaked under his boots as Sephiroth, dressed in his full uniform with shoulder straps and grayish-green overcoat, made his way through the silent frozen crowd to where the coffin stood. It was early sunny morning, the air fresh and clear, a mockery of his mourning.

Kappel's haggard immobile face was white, rime faintly glistening on his moustache. Nothing of a vigorous strong-willed person remained, just a plaster cast. Pale fingers ruthlessly clutched the side of the wooden coffin as Sephiroth leaned over, brushing the General's cold marble forehead with his lips.

With Kolchak and Kappel Russia he knew finally died, and only a pitiful handful of defenders remained. He accepted the new realization with grave stubborn fatality. Fingers clenched with force as the Major General straightened.

Siberian Ice March – and thus his duty - was far from over.

Having exchanged glances with approaching Voitsehovskiy, Sephiroth stepped back from the coffin and headed for the hut without looking back at the deceased. Emerald eyes slid along the row of soldiers. Many were openly weeping, tears streaming down their hard weather-beaten faces. To them the General was more than a hero; he was a father. Perhaps, Sephiroth thought, to him Kappel was something like a father as well, the only person he could call one.

Rigid legs carried him to the wooden porch; he ascended the stairs and disappeared inside, having leaned against the doorway, so that he could see what was going on in the court and remain unseen.

Genesis… his lover's name painfully echoed in his heart. Will they ever meet or did his fate finally scatter them as withering yellow leaves? Was he even alive or did he find his death just like Kappel, just like his motherland?

Fingers absently twiddled long silver tresses, tangling and untangling them. There were too many dead to hope for anything. Too many dead…

Sephiroth swallowed a single tear that rolled out of the corner of his emerald eyes.

And so he stood motionless, as if expecting something, until the crowd kneeled in the court and started singing the solemn litany _Immortal memory_.

… Two or so weeks later his regiment was ambushed near Irkutsk, and he got captured. His faithful jet-black steed, weakened by the long hopeless journey in ice, fell.

Then Sephiroth understood it was finally the end for him.

* * *

_6th of February, 1920; Irkutsk prison._

Memories. Lurking in the darkness, they haunted Sephiroth, and even as he tried to discard them, they kept returning. After all, there was not much he could do in the small cell four of five steps across, with stone walls, low ceiling and a narrow window just above his head, through which faint light penetrated into the room. Through it he heard the sounds of life, the neighing horses, the marching troops and the din of passing carriages.

He had much to remember, most of recollections painful and undesired.

Sephiroth lay on the bunk, thin woolen blanket wrapped around his legs, emerald eyes icily and impassibly staring at the ceiling. His breath was a faint cloud of vapor.

He lost. It was inescapable. It was fatal.

He cravenly desired it to end, all this farcical justice, all this show Bolsheviks made. He knew his sentence. Why waste any more time to torment him?

From the light in the narrow guarded window – or the lack of it – Sephiroth could tell it was late evening. A couple of minutes ago a column of armed infantry marched by his prison. He heard sharp orders and the unforgettable sound of hundreds of boots hitting paved street.

Emerald eyes closed. Suddenly he heard steps, shuffling in long corridors of the military prison. Someone was heading to his cell.

What did they need now? It was late.

The rusty door opened with unpleasant creak and five soldiers with rifles crowded in the doorway.

"Get up and move!" Sephiroth obeyed, rising. Handcuffs circled his wrists at once and buttstock hit his shoulder blades, urging forward.

The Major General tossed his silver head. It was wounded pride.

He lost too foolishly. Blind luck.

They walked through empty halls, long and twisted as intestine of a beast. Soldiers walked silently and he didn't attempt to ask any questions. When the time came he would be told everything he needed to know.

His escort halted on the second floor in front of the wooden door of a private cabinet, yet the Major General was the only one to enter.

The dark room was nearly empty with a single kerosene lamp, a desk, and a chair whereupon a man with a revolver sat. The tall window opened on the street. Sephiroth shot a vacant glance at the interior and then focused on the person. Judging by the straps on his shoulders, it was a Red Major.

Surprisingly young man rose to greet him.

"Major General Sephiroth? We have heard a lot about you." He shot a glance at the papers that piled up on his desk. "I am Major Isaev."

Sephiroth coldly nodded. He had no strength for their games and hypocritical pleasantries. The door closed behind him, and he felt himself worse than in his cell.

"To make the long story short," Isaev smiled a strained smile, "we know you have rendered great services to our motherland during the Great War." Sephiroth froze before reaching the table. He expected everything, but not this. "And much could be… overlooked just for those merits."

Ah, Sephiroth finally understood, loosing last remains of interest in the conversation. What they were to ask of him was impossible.

"If you help us, we could help you." Isaev finished, perhaps, having unquestionable faith in his own diplomatic abilities.

"What do you need?" The Major General asked dispassionately.

Isaev's face visibly brightened up.

"Anything you could give us. Voitsehovskiy's plans, position of the White forces, number of artillery pieces… anything."

They were asking him to betray his own comrades to save the last shards of his shattered life. They were asking him to become a monster who was killing Germans and Austro-Hungarians out of macabre sense of humor, out of some hideous amusement.

They were asking him to render all his efforts and sacrifices during the Siberian Ice March meaningless.

A tired bitter smirk flashed on thin lips.

They didn't understand anything. They were asking too much.

"And what would I get in return?"

"Freedom. We could give you new identity, new documents, new life and all you have to do is talk."

Freedom… new life…

Sephiroth came to stand by the window with his silver-plated back to the Major, and looked out. Carriages crowded on the dirty snow, and people hurriedly moved from one to another in darkness. He saw them with his keen eyes. They belonged to different eras.

Theirs was a new epoch, when a boy who reported his parents for a sack of potatoes they tried to hide, was considered a national hero. It was a new epoch when one could meet a person, fall in love with him, and on the next day he would disappear to be never heard of or seen again. It was a new epoch of fear.

They didn't understand that in this new epoch the likes of him were no longer needed.

_Forgive me, Genesis…_

"There will be no deal, Major Isaev," Sephiroth said resolutely, even if quietly. Pale trembling fingers clutched the whitewashed wall for an instant, betraying him.

Isaev quitted his seat and stood aloof.

"This is a very generous offer, Major General." Was he vexed? They had to be desperate indeed.

"I appreciate the trouble and concern, Major," a smirk played across thin lips, almost void of any satisfaction or the likes. Sephiroth turned around.

Major Isaev clearly looked disappointed. The silver-haired General didn't blame him. He was young, ambitious and, likely, wanted to finish off all remaining White forces by himself to rise through ranks of the Red Army.

"Is this your last word?" The Major's voice was cold, all feigned cheerfulness gone.

Emerald eyes closed wearily. Sephiroth suddenly felt the taste of Genesis' lips on his.

"Yes."

They didn't understand that he knew how to lose.

* * *

_8th of February, 1920; Irkutsk prison._

Sephiroth didn't remember how he exited the cell and got to the small courtyard behind the military prison. Each step was a struggle for him as though it wasn't a step he took but walked the whole verst in the strong blizzard. It took all his willpower and pride to make himself move, for his body felt already dead.

His thoughts were painfully short as spasms. Sephiroth couldn't think about the fate of his motherland, he couldn't even think of Genesis, seeing his venereal dying beauty only. Other memories refused to resurface, unable to penetrate the strange block in his head.

At first, when the Major General left the building, he looked up at the cloudy welkin, regretting that he'd never see the sun again in his life. The next moment he couldn't remember what he was thinking about. His mind crumbled as a sand fortress, legs and arms were unruly.

The squad of six soldiers followed him from behind, rifles armed and ready. His wrists were cuffed, iron shackles ruthlessly sticking into his skin.

The strong gust of cold wind scattered silver hair as a veil over his frame. The Major General was in his full uniform, as if dressed for another parade, clean shoulder straps outlining his bearing.

The iron gate faintly creaked to let them pass. The next sound he could comprehend was someone's voice asking.

"Last death wish?" It rang casually, routinely, as if Major Isaev was asking his wife about breakfast. "Or, perhaps, a priest?"

Sephiroth shook his silver head.

"No." It was his first word spoken that day and his last.

The Major General had much to ask forgiveness for; and he would have asked, only inexistent God was the last one he would turn to; and his last wish – to know whether Genesis was alive – could not be fulfilled.

Sephiroth listlessly looked around, barely moving. He could suddenly smell snow.

The courtyard was surrounded by three brick walls. He had to stand by one of them. Soldiers had to push him. Sephiroth couldn't move on his own.

One step, then another… will this torture ever end?

The Major General finally stood by the brick wall in the narrow dirty courtyard. It was the finale of his struggle, the beggarly corner a grave to the grandeur and dreams.

Major Isaev began to turn him around, so that he would stand with his back to the squad, but Sephiroth stopped him.

He would not cower. He wanted to die like Admiral Kolchak, never uttering a single word of entreaty.

The Major avoided his eyes, averting his face.

"As you wish." Sephiroth heard a gulp.

Major Isaev took his handcuffs off and retreated to where the Major General could no longer see him. Six soldiers began lining up in front. They moved slowly, as puppets in the theatre.

Or, perhaps, it was just a delusion.

"Ready! Aim!" The voice echoed in his head, as if from the great distance. His nails dug into his palm and heart painfully leapt to his throat. NO! They wouldn't see him beg for his life. Never.

Emerald eyes closed. Sephiroth couldn't look at the soldiers any longer, at those rifles, faintly glistening in predawn mist. Shaky breath passed his lips.

He was afraid.

And then the block in his head snapped.

…It was summer of 1912; they were kissing in the haycock. Sephiroth could have sworn he smelled the fresh grass, felt Genesis' lips pressed to his own, heard the faint rustle of stalks in the wind.

"Fire!"

He could have sworn he…

Staccato sounds tore through his ears, and then the world turned into a black void. Forevermore.

Sephiroth's fate was finally merciful to him. The soldier that stood in the middle fired a bullet that went through his heart, killing him in an unnoticeable instant.

His body in grayish-green overcoat slipped down the wall limp and broken, emerald eyes fluttered open in death agony to never close again and bright sunrays finally penetrated thick dismal clouds, merrily playing on unsullied snow, on scattered silver hair, and everyone who was present in the courtyard saw that the dead General was smiling.

Like an angel.

* * *

_9th of February, 1920; Irkutsk._

The city resembled a disturbed hive. News overflowed it, droning as an irksome gnat song. Admiral Kolchak was hastily executed by shooting before the approach march of the White forces. With a weak garrison Bolsheviks had in the city they could not hope to defend it and were afraid their prisoner could escape, yet, having learned the grave news, the Whites passed round the city in their endless march into the depth of Siberia. The Red troops flooded narrow streets, cavalry and infantry gathering, moving out to chase the remaining White forces. There was other news that made Genesis go hot and cold, the news he didn't wish to believe in with obstinacy of youth. A day after admiral Kolchak was executed another high ranking White officer was shot. It was Major General Sephiroth.

His lover.

The redhead didn't wish to believe he was too late.

Like a shadow he hid between the houses and carriages, wandering, tracking down people who could know anything about Sephiroth's fate and finally found a secretary of a drumhead court-martial.

A short light-haired man stood cornered in the dark empty alley, frightened expression distorting his face, as Genesis extended a revolver and pointed to him.

"What do you w-want of me?" The man wobbled, seeking support by the brick wall. His voice trembled.

Coward, the redhead thought with disdain.

"Are you secretary Popov?" The light-haired man hastily nodded. "I need your minutes."

"I don't have them with me…"

Genesis shook his head, vexed.

"Major General Sephiroth?" The redhead demanded with masterful notes in his melodic voice. "What was his fate?"

The man paled. "Who are y-you?" His dark eyes were wide with fear. He was beginning to understand.

The cold barrel of a revolver neared the man's forehead.

"I am the one asking questions here," Genesis snapped, anger and anxiety barely held at bay. He was on the brink. The man didn't see it.

"All right, all right," the secretary's head flaccidly dangled sideways as that of a rag doll. "He was shot yesterday."

Despite the anticipated news, it felt as a blow to his stomach. Something broke inside him and vanished in the black void. The thoughts became dim, he staggered, taking a step forward and only azure eyes flashed as liquid blue flames.

He couldn't accept it. Shot yesterday… it was not possible.

His subtle palm clenched the man's neck. Secretary moaned, sounds of his voice turning into hoarseness as the redhead's fingers came together tighter.

"You lied."

"NO! I did… not… Please, spare me…" the man implored, choking, forcing words out of his numb throat. "I have a family. Wife… children…"

It was meant to wake his mercy and yet the redhead felt only hatred. Tall as a tenth wave it swept over, dark and turbid, as though rising from the darkest depths of the sea.

The insides of him screamed for revenge, his heart deaf to all entreaties. Plump lips folded into a ruthless smile.

"You think it is all right," Genesis hissed through clenched teeth. His free hand pressed his revolver to secretary's temple covered in cold sweat. The body in his arms began to quiver violently; he though it was morbid fright. "If he has no family, if he has no one to come home to… to simply shoot him…" His throat contracted. Hatred burnt. Hatred demented. "Shoot like an animal… is this what you think was right to do?! No man, no problem?!"

Genesis was shouting, uncaring about whether he would be heard or whether he could be caught. The dark eyes were wide, incoherent sounds passing man's lips.

His fingers were rigid as steel.

"Do you know that he was worth dozens of your likes?!"

Genesis couldn't hold out any longer, lifting man's body and pulling the trigger, not realizing that the secretary in his hands was already dead. A deafening bang echoed through his ears. Something hot and salty fell on his lips, on his face.

Blood.

Breathing heavily, the redhead hurled the corpse aside. His thoughts were still mercifully numb.

A carriage drove through the nearby arc in the adjacent street, loud rumble breaking silence. Genesis had to flee as fast as he could. If he was discovered he would share his lover's fate.

_Sephiroth was shot yesterday…_

Clutching the wall, Genesis blindly plodded towards the quay, and only when he reached the bridge that joined left and right banks of Angara, did the realization finally dawned.

Then he slumped against the stone wall, pressing his knees to his chest, burying his face in his palms. The revolver fell by his side. Genesis didn't notice that his fingers were covered in blood.

He even had no strength to cry.

He came too late.

For that he hated himself. For that he abhorred the whole world.

The redhead collected himself only when heard the sounds of approaching Red cavalry, the neighing horses, the out of tune singing.

He needed to get out of the city under the cover of night. In a way his lover sacrificed his life so that Genesis could survive.

His fists clenched.

And he would survive to take away the remains of the Russian Idea and memories of Sephiroth with him to the exile.

* * *

_12th of February, 1920; Siberian railroad._

The train was speeding away into the night, the contours of taiga blurred in the window. Was it because of the speed or tears that welled up in cerulean eyes?

Genesis sat on the bunk; on the bed in front lay a woman in gray clothing with a little girl. Her face was worn out and wasted and her daughter faintly wept from time to time. Two dismal men occupied the bunk on top. They didn't talk much either.

If the redhead closed his eyes he could still pretend it was the armored train, and soon he would receive the grave news of Kolchak's imprisonment, rise and head to Sephiroth's compartment to deliver them.

If he closed his eyes he still felt Sephiroth was alive.

Yet once he opened them the truth ruthlessly reminded of the opposite. It was the echelon of refugees, Sephiroth was executed and he was fleeing Russia. The war was finally over, only he wasn't happy. Where should he go? To France? To Germany? What sense did it all make? He lost everything one could lose in a lifetime and another struggle seemed just a pointless waste of time and strength.

Genesis shrank into a corner on his bed. A pencil stump was in his fingers and a book sprawled on his knees. When he was writing, he felt a bit better, and the burden he carried on his shoulders felt lighter.

"Sephiroth," he began scribbling on the blank page, trying to steady the book each time the train shook, "always liked to repeat what we were fighting against. Then his usually cold face lit up, and deep emerald eyes sparked. He somehow saw what was coming after Bolsheviks shot the Tsar's family. He saw the approaching Red Terror, the concentration camps… all of it. That was what he was fighting against.

I didn't understand him at first. After all, we were different. I followed because I had nowhere else to go when many of Russian officers ended up in Petropavlovsk fortress.

But such was Sephiroth.

My lover."

Genesis reread the paragraph he wrote once, twice and then resolutely crossed out the last line.

* * *

_**Epilogue.**_

_About 35 years later; Irkutsk._

The city changed dramatically since Genesis saw it for the last time in that bleak 1920, when after his lover's execution he's been fleeing from the Red Terror. Irkutsk was now a big city, living its busy industrial life, where nothing of the narrow streets, jammed with carriages and marching infantry in Bolshevik's military uniform, remained.

It remembered neither Major General Sephiroth, nor the heroic feat of all White Officers. People were good at forgetting, at believing in lies, at hiding from truth that would make them look bad in their own eyes. People were not capable of repeating their feat. They preferred to pretend it has never happened.

His gaze slid along the busy street, full of people who were in a hurry on their daily monotonous matters.

It was comfortable to forget.

Genesis stopped believing in people; he's been living a secluded life for the last thirty five, mostly writing his memoirs. He had some friends and brief relationships from time to time when the solitude and war memories became impossible to bear. He survived the Vichy regime, the SS and French militia persecutions, he waited until Stalin died and the iron curtain that separated the Soviet Union from the rest of the world was lifted, even if just a little bit, so that he could finally return to his motherland and fulfill his last dream.

To find Sephiroth's grave.

If it wasn't for it, Genesis would have given up a long time ago.

He was too old. None suspected him to be a spy and after a year of unsuccessful attempts he was finally allowed to enter the Soviet Russia. For the first time in almost thirty five years Genesis could set his foot on the land that gave birth to him and took everything he loved and cherished, his parents, who died along with the Tsar's family, his bold dreams of youth, and his only sincere deep love.

Sephiroth.

Could he still love his motherland after that? And was it his motherland?

Unfamiliar landscape was sliding away in the opened window of a massive military green jeep he was sitting in on the passenger's seat, watching tall brick buildings, all of similar shape and color, paved streets, snow-covered trees. He was breathing fresh air, shivering with cold and wrapping himself tighter in thick warm coat and woolen scarf. He wasn't that same young person any longer, feeling even the slightest change in weather.

An old man of his age was steering. They sat in utter silence, broken only by low rumble of the car's engine. Genesis has been looking through the window all the time, dull azure eyes vacant and empty.

When they first met an hour or so ago on the train station, the former Major General asked him two questions, and none of them included stranger's name.

"Did you shoot him?" Was the first one, and when the old gray-haired man nodded, he inquired again. "How do you know it was him?"

His companion coughed, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. His wrinkled face became thoughtful.

"He was just like the idea he fought and died for." The old man took a puff and coughed again. "If you understand what I mean."

Genesis understood. By that time it was obvious that the White eclipse was nearly over, and a new sun of bloody red color was about to rise on the horizon.

He curtly nodded, turning around and heading for the car. A quiet question rang after him set against his back, as a cold barrel of a revolver.

"Were you good friends?" Genesis pursed his lips and said nothing, continuing to walk away slowly. "I am sorry. I was just following orders."

Just following orders… did he truly need those words?

He was silent, silent all the way from the railroad to the cemetery. He wasn't capable of holier-than-thou absolution, even though he didn't feel overwhelming hatred which burnt him so many years ago.

He was too tired, shattered and bitter. His flames dimmed and faded, yet he could not forget. He could not forgive.

Ever.

… The small and old military graveyard was a recluse place, rarely visited, rarely tended to. The old man in the green military jeep remained by the entrance, for Genesis didn't wish to see him standing by his side. It felt wrong, no matter what explanations the stranger could come up with.

The hill was barren, decorated with a low iron fence and two graves, one of which was nameless. The low hump was covered with white blanket, reminding him of the Siberian Ice march when him and his lover got separated forever. A rusty plate was attached to the simple iron cross, engravings barely visible on it. Genesis had to narrow his lids to read:

"Major General Sephiroth, 11th November, 1893 - 8th February, 1920."

It was all that remained of his lover, a low snow-covered hump, an iron cross and a rusty plate. Genesis' fingers gently passed over the engraved name.

Sephiroth was just twenty six when he died.

The realization painfully echoed through his chest as his heart contracted. Genesis thought time had healed the wound or at least crudely stitched with unskilled hand, yet here, standing by the small white hump, he understood that he was wrong.

When Genesis first thought of searching for his lover's grave he wanted to build Sephiroth a memorial and he saved money for it. Standing by his lover's grave, Genesis realized that he wouldn't want those vainglorious symbols. The best tombstone for the Major General was a book he wrote.

Despite the pain in his joints, Genesis kneeled by Sephiroth's grave.

"Sleep peacefully, my beloved," he softly whispered, placing a single white rose onto the white snowy coverlet. A lone tear streamed down his wrinkled cheek.

Suddenly Genesis felt overwhelming peace.

His last dream finally came true.

…Genesis Rhapsodos, former Major General of the Eastern front of the White movement, died peacefully in his bed the following morning. Money he left after his death was enough to build him a sepulcher, yet all he asked for was a modest burial on the same graveyard his lover's body has laid for the last thirty five years. His wish was fulfilled and finally they were reunited again.

The scattered shards of a dead epoch. Lost Generation. Children of war.

Sephiroth and Genesis.

* * *

_**The end.**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

_**Afterword.**_

Well… It is as close to real life as I could make it, cruel, harsh and painful as it is. All personalities (besides Seph, Gen, Hollander and Katherine Orlova), places and events are real or very close to reality. Certainly, I was not always precisely accurate. Like Seph and Gen had to be by all demands of that epoch orthodox, but I couldn't imagine them being religious.

Dedicated to the feat of Russian White Officers, almost 90th anniversary of the Great Siberian Ice March and to my dear sphinxofthenile as I have already mentioned. There are things we have no right to forget, like WW1, WW2, Siberian Ice March and even those are among so many more. Yet it pains me to see that with modern tendencies that's all we are doing. Forgetting.

My special thanks to sphinxofthenile, pearlwhite and CNome. Reading your thoughts was an immense pleasure.

And… I guess that should be all.

Yours,

SLoveless.


End file.
